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AN 



AMERICAN ANTHOLOGY 



1 787-1900 



SELECTIONS ILLUSTRATING THE EDITOR'S CRITICAL 

REVIEW OF AMERICAN POETRY IN THE 

NINETEENTH CENTURY 



EDITED BY 

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 

AUTHOR OF " POETS OF AMERICA," "VICTORIAN POETS," ETC. 
AND EDITOR OF " A VICTORIAN ANTHOLOGY " 







iOU 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

(Cbc VvtatxviK, ^xzi$y Canibrib0e 



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(.'b^ 






Copyright, 1900, 
By EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 

AU rights reserved. 



SIXTH IMPRESSION 



COPYRIGHT NOTICE 



All rights on poems in this work are reserved by the holders of the copyright. The pub- 
lishers and others named in the subjoined list are the proprietors, either in their own right 
or as agents for the authors, of the books and poems of which the authorship and titles are given 
respectively, and of which the ownership is thus specifically noted and is hereby acknowledged^ 

Publishers of " AN AMERICAN ANTHOLOGY." 

1900 

Messrs. D. Appleton & Co., New York. — W. C. Bryant : Works — " Thanatopsis," " To 
a Waterfowl," "Oh, Fairest of the Rural Maids," " A Forest Hymn," " June," " The Past," 
" The Evening Wind," " To a Fringed Gentian," " The Hunter of the Prairies," " The Battle- 
Field," " An Evening Revery," " The Antiquity of Freedom," "America," " The Planting of 
the Apple Tree," " The May Sun sheds an Amber Light," " The Conqueror's Grave," " The 
Poet," "My Autumn Walk," " The Death of Slavery," " In Memory of John Lothrop Motley," 
" The Flood of Years ; " Abraham Cotes : " Dies Irae ; " G. W. Doane : Writings — " Evening," 
" Robin Redbreast ; " F. G. Halleck : Writings — " Marco Bozzaris," " On the Death of J. R. 
Drake," " Alnwick Castle," " Burns," " Red Jacket ; " i''. L. Stanton : Songs of the SoU — " The 
Mocking Bird," " A Little Way." 

Messrs. Wm. E. Ashmall & Co., Arlington, N. J. — Frances D. Swift Tatnall : " Art Thou 
the Same ? " 

Messrs. Richard G. Badger & Co., Boston. — Edwin Arlington Robinson : The Children of 
the Night. 

Messrs. A. S. Barnes & Co., New York. — Bay Palmer : Poetical Works. 

Messrs Benzigeb Brothers, New York. — Edmund Hill, C. P. : Passion Flowers; 
M. F, Egan : Songs and Sonnets. 

The Bowen-Mebrill Company, Indianapolis. — J. W. Biley : Neighborly Poems, — After- 
whiles, — Rhymes of Childhood, — Flying Islands of the Night, — Armazindy (copyrighted by 
Mr. Riley) ; F. L. Stanton: Comes One with a Song (copyrighted by the Bo wen-Merrill Co.). 

Brent anos, New York. — J. H. Boner : Whispering Pines ; L. E. Mitchell : Sylvian ; Tracy 
Robinson : Song of the Palm. ^ 

The Century Company, New York. — C. E. Carryl : The Admiral's Caravan, — Davy And 
the Goblin ; R. W. Gilder : Five Books of Song, — In Palestine.; Oliver Herford : Artful 
Antics; B. U. Johnson : Songs of Liberty, — The Winter Hour i"' 5. W. Mitchell: Collected 
Poems ; J. W. Riley : Poems Here at Home ; Irwin Russell : Poems. From " The Century 
Magazine " and " St. Nicholas,"— J. E. Bangs: " The Little Elf ; " John Bennett : Songs from 
" Master Skylark ; " J. H. Boner: " Poe's Cottage at Fordham;" R. R. Bowker : "Thomas k 
Kempis ; " Alice W. Brotherton : " My Enemy ; " Alice L. Bunner : " Immutabilis ; " Virginia 
W. Cloud : " Care ; " W. D. Ellwanger : '' To Jessie's Dancing Feet ; " W. H. Hayne : " Moon- 
light Song ; " Mary T. Higginson : " Inheritance ; " T. W. Higginson : " Such Stuff as 
Dreams ; " Mildred Howells : " Romance ; " ./. H. Ingham : " Genesis ; " Tudor Jenks : " After- 
noon Tea ; " Mrs. R. H. Lathrop : " Give me not Tears ; " Julie M. Li'ppmann : " Love and 
Life," " Stone Walls ; " Agnes L. Carter Mason : "Whenever a Little Child is Bom ; " W. T. 
Meredith : " Farragut ; " Harriet Monroe : " A Farewell ; " Harriet S. Morgridge : " Mother 
Goose Sonnets ; " Laura E. Richards : " Where Helen Sits ; " J. £. Saxton : " The First Step ; " 
C. W. Stoddard: "Albatross;" Edith M. Thomas: "Breath of Hampstead Heath; " W. H. 
Thompson : " High Tide at Gettvsbiirg," " Come Love or Death ; " L. F. Tooker : " The Last 
Fight," " His Quest ; " Ella Wheeler Wilcox : " Recrimination ; " R. B. Wilson : " Such is 
the Death the Soldier dies ; " G. E. Woodberry : " On a Portrait of Columbus," " America to 
England ; " William Young : " Judith.' ' 



viii COPYRIGHT NOTICE 

The Eobbbt Clarke Company, Cincinnati. — W. D. Gallagher : Miami Woods ; W. H. 
Lytle : Poems ; J. J. Piatt : Odes in Ohio ; G. D. Prentice : Poems ; W. H. Venable : Melodies of 
the Heart, — The Last Flight. 

Messes. Henky T. Coates & Co., Philadelphia. — Ethel Lynn Beers : All Quiet along tae 
Potomac, and Other Poems ; C. F. Hoffman : Poems ; D. L. Proudfit : Mask and Domino ; 
U. W. Watson : Songs of Flying Hours. 

The Columbia Monthly, New York. — G. S. Hellman : " Coleridge," " The Hudson." 

The Cosmopolitan, Irvington, N. Y. — Robert Bridges; " The Unillumined Verge ; " W. H. 
Hayne : " An Autumn Breeze," " The Yule Log." 

The Criterion, New York. — John Bennett : " Her Answer ; " Bupert Hughes : " For Decora- 
tion Day ; " Tudor Jenks : " The Spirit of the Maine ; " Wilbur Underwood : " The Cattle of his 
Hand." 

Messrs. Thomas Y. Crowell & Co., New York. — Sarah K. Bolton : The Inevitable, and 
Other Poems ; N. H. Dole : The Hawthorne Tree, and Other Poems ; E. F. Fenollosa : East 
and West. 

Mr. Joseph George Cupples, Boston. — H. B. Carpenter : A Poet's Last Songs. 

Messrs. Db Wolfe, Fiske & Co., Boston. — Sarah P. McLean Greene : Towhead. 

The Dial, Chicago. — C. L. Moore : " To England." 

Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Co., New York. — P. L. Dunbar : Lyrics of Lowly Life, — Lyrics of 
the Hearthside ; Ernest McGaffey : Poems ; H. T. Peck : Grey stone and Porphyry. From 
" The Bookman," — William Young : " Philomel to Corydon." 

The R. R. Donnelly & Sons Company, Chicago. — Francis Brooks : Poems ; Wallace Bice 
and Barrett Eastman : Under the Stars, and Other Verses ; Wallace Bice : The Flying Sands. 

The Doubleday and McClure Company, New York. — Martha G. Dickinson : Within the 
Hedge ; Edwin Markham : The Man with the Hoe, and Other Poems ; Howard Weeden : 
Bandanna Ballads. 

Messrs. E. P. Dutton & Co., New York. — May Biley Smith : Sometime, and Other Poems. 

East and West, New York. — Beatrix D. Lloyd : " Night Wind ; " Alice Duer Miller : 
" Song." 

Mr. George H. Ellis, Boston. — M. J. Savage : Poems. 

Messrs. Dana Estes & Co., Boston. — Lloyd Mifflin : At the Gates of Song. 

Messrs. Funk & Wagnalls, New York. — Richard Bealf: Poems. 

Messrs. Harper & Brothers, New York. — J. K. Bangs : Cobwebs from a Library 
Corner — " To a Withered Rose," " May 30, 1893 ; " Wallace Bruce : Wayside Poems — " Two 
Argosies ; " William Allen Butler : Nothing to Wear, and Other Poems ; Will Carleton : Farm 
Ballads — "Out of the Old House, Nancy ;" G. W. Carryl : Fables for the Frivolous — " The 
Sycophantic Fox ; " G. W. Curtis : " Ebb and Flow ; " Cora Fabbri : Lyrics — " White Roses ; " 
W. D. Howells : Stops of Various Quills — " From Generation to Generation," " Change," 
"If," "Hope," "Vision," "Judgment Day," "What shall it "Profit ;" fffr7?ian ilfeZw7/e; Battle 
Pieces — " The College Colonel," " The Eagle of the Blue," " On the Slain at Chickamauga," 
"An Uninscribed Monument;" W. A. Muhlenberg: Works — "I Would not Live Alway," 
" Heaven's Magnificence ; " Margaret E. Sangster : On the Road Home, — Easter Bells — 
" Whittier," "Awakening;" Alice A. Sewall James: Ode to Girlhood, and Other Poems — 
" Sinfonia Eroica," "The Butterfly," " Processional ;" iew Wallace: Song from "Ben Hur." 
From " Harper's Magazine " and " Harper's Weekly," — Anna C. Brackett : " In Hades ; " G. 
W. Carryl: " When the Great Gray Ships come in ; " Virginia W. Cloud : " An Old Street ; " 
George Cocker : " Only One ; " J. B. Gilder : " The Parting of the Ways ; " Hildegarde Haw- 
thorne .- " A Song," " My Rose ; " W. H. Hayne : " Exiles ; " Walter Malone : " October in Ten- 
nessee ; " G. E. Montgomery .- " A Dead Soldier ; " R. K. Munkittrick ; " A Bulb ; " N. G. Shep- 
herd: "RoU-Call;" R. H. Stoddard: "The Lover;" Princess Troubetskoy : "A Mood." 
" Before the Rain," " A Sonnet ; " Mary E. Wilkins : " Now is the Cherry in Bloom ; " C?. E. 
Woodberry : " Love's Rosary." 

Messrs. Henry Holt & Co., New York. — H. A. Beers : The Ways of Yale ; C L. Moore : 
Book of Day Dreams ; R. K. Weeks : Poems ; Theodore Winthrop : Poems. 

Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston. — T. B. Aldrich : Poetical Works ; George 
Arnold : Poems ; Arlo Bates : Under the Beech Tree ; Gertrude Bloede : Beyond the Shadow ; 
Alice Brown : The Road to Castaly ; Alice and Phoebe Cary : Poems ; Florence E. Coates : 
Poems ; Helen G. Cone : The Ride to the Lady ; Ina Coolbriih : Songs from the Golden Gate ; 
Ellen M. Hutchinson Cortissoz : Songs and Lyrics ; C. P. Cranch : The Bird and the Bell ; 
Margaret Deland : The Old Garden ; R. W. Emerson : Poetical Works ; Annie Fields : Under 
the Olive, — The Singing Shepherd; J. T, Fields: Ballads and Other Verses; Louise G. 



COPYRIGHT NOTICE ix 



Guiney : The Martyr's Idyl, — A Roadside Harp, — The White Sail, — In England and 
Yesterday ; J. C. Harris : Uncle Remus and His Friends ; F. Bret Harte : Poetical Works ; 
John Hay : Poems ; T. W. Hi^ginson : Outdoor Studies ; O. W, Holmes : Poetical Works ; 
Julia Ward Howe : From Sunset Ridge ; W. D. Howells : Poems ; Lucy Larcoin : Poetical 
Works; Base Hawthorne Lathrop: Along the Shore; Emma Lazarus: Poepis ; H. W. Long- 
fellow : Poetical Works ; J. B. Lowell : Poetical Works ; Frances L. Mace : Under Pine and 
Palm ; Caroline A. Mason : The Lost Ring ; Emma H. Nason : The Tower with Legends and 
Lyrics ; T. W. Parsons : Poems ; Nora Perry : After the Ball, — New Songs and Ballads ; 
Edna D. Proctor : Song of the Ancient People ; Lizette W. Beese : A Handful of Lavender, — 
A Quiet Road ; J. J. Boche : Ballads of Blue Water ; J. 0. Sargent : Horatian Echoes ; 
Clintov ScoUard : Songs of Sunrise Lands ; Eliza Scudder : Hymns and Sonnets ; F. D. Sherman : 
Lyrics for a Lute, — Little-Folk Lyrics ; E. B. Sill : The Hermitage, — Hermione ; Harriet P. 
Spofford : Poems ; E. C. Stedman : Poetical Works, — Poems Now First Collected ; Elizabeth 
Stoddard : Poems ; W. W. Story : Poetical Works ; Harriet B. Stowe : Religious Studies ; 
Bayard Taylor : Poetical Works ; Celia Thaxter : Poetical Works ; W, B. Thayer : Poems ; " The 
Edith M. Thomas : Fair Shadow Land, — Lyrics and Sonnets, — A New Year's Masque — " The 
Inverted Torch ; " Maurice Thompson : Poems ; H. D. Thoreau : Letters ; Henry Timrod : Poems ; 
J. T. Trowbridge : The Vagabonds, and Other Poems ; Elizabeth S. Phelps Ward : Songs of the 
Silent World ; "C H. Webb : Vagrom Verse ; C. G. Whiting : The Saunterer ; J. G. Whittier : 
Poetical Works ; Forceythe Willson : The Old Sergeant ; G. E. Woodberry : The North Shore 
Watch, and Other Poems. 

The Indepe>dbnt, New York. — W. H. Hayne: " A Cyclone at Sea; " Sarah P. McLean 
Greene : " The Lamp ; " Maurice Thompson : " The Lion's Cub." 

Mr. p. J. Kenedy. New York. — Father Ryau's Poems. 

The Ladies' Home Journal, Philadelphia. — Virginia W. Cloud : " The Mother's Song." 

Mk. Edwin Ruthven Lamson, Boston. — Ednah P. Clarke : An Opal. 

Mkssr^. Lee & Shepard. — S. W. Foss : Dreams in Homespun. 

Mrs. Frank Leslie. — E. A. U. Valentine: " The Spirit of the Wheat." 

The J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia. — L. J. Block : Dramatic Sketches and Poems* 
G. H. Boker : Plays and Poems ; Bobert Loveman : His Poems ; H. S. Morris : Madonna and 
Other Poems ; Henry Peterson : Poems ; Edward Pollock : Poems ; Margaret J. Preston : Old 
?iongs and New ; C. F. Bichardson : The Cross ; T. B. Bead : Poetical Works ; F. O. Ticknnr : 
Poems ; A. B. Paine : " The Little Child." 

Messrs. Little, Brown & Co., Boston. — A. B. Alcott : Sonnets & Canzonets ; J. W. 
Chadwick : A Book of Poems, — In Nazareth Town ; W. E. Channing : Poems, — Thoreau : 
the Poet Naturalist ; Emily Dickinson : Poems,, 1st, 2d, and 3d series ; Mary M. Fenollosa : 
Out of the Nest ; Gertrude Hall : Allegretto, — Age of Fairy Gold ; Helen F. Jackson : 
Verses, Sonnets, and Lyrics; Louise Chandler Moulton: Swallow Flights, — In the Garden of 
Dreams, — At the Wind's Will ; Margaret J. Preston : Cartoons ; Laura E. Bichards : In My 
Nursery ; C. F. Bichardson : The End of the Beginning ; Susan Marr Spalding : The Wings of 
Icarus ; Lilian Whiting : From Dreamland Sent ; Sarah C. Woolsey : Verses, — A Few More 
Verses. 

Messrs. Longmans, Green, & Co., New York. — J. J. Piatt : Idyls and Lyrics of the Ohio 
Valley, — Little New World Idyls ; Sarah M. B. Piatt : Poems, — An Enchanted Castle. 

LOTHROP PuBLrsHiNG COMPANY, BostoH. — J. B. Bensel : In the King's Garden ; Mary B. 
Dodge: The Gray Masque ; P. H. Hayne: Poems. From " Wide Awake," — Clara D. Bates : 
" Thistle Down ;"" Henrietta B. Eliot : " Why it was Cold in May." 

Messrs. Luckhardt & Belder, New York. — W. H. Gardner : " When Love Comes 
Knocking." 

The Macmlllan Company, New York. — Hamlin Garland : The Trail of the Goldseekers, 
1899, — Prairie Songs ; Ella Higginson : When the Birds go North again, 1898 ; Sophie Jewett : 
The Pilgrim, and Other Poems, 1896 ; William Winter : Wanderers, 1892, — Brown Heath and 
Blue Bells, 1895 ; G. E. Woodberry : Wild Eden, 1899. 

Messrs. Maynard, Merrill & Co., New York. — " Yale Verse." 

The Morningsede, New York. — John Erskine : " The Song ; " Jeannette B. Gillespy : 
" Forgiven," — "A Valentine." 

Messrs. John P. Morton & Co., Louisville. — Madison Cawein : The Garden of Dreams. 

Mr. David McKay, Philadelphia. — D. L. Dawson : The Seeker of the Marshes, and Other 
Poems. 

Mr. Charles Wells Modlton, Buffalo. — Augusta C. Bristol : The Web of Life ; J. B. 
Kenyon : At the Gate of Dreams; H. L. Koopman : Orestes, and Other Poems ; Walter Malone: 
Sjngs of Dusk and Dawn. 



COPYRIGHT NOTICE 



The New England Publishing Co., Boston. — Hezekiah Butterworth : Songs of History. 
Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York. — L. J. Block : The New World ; Madison Cawein : 
Myth and Romance, — Intimations of the Beautiful ; C H. Cra ndall : Wayside Music ; 
Danske Dandridge : Joy, and Other Poems ; Elaine Goodale Eastman : Apple Blossoms ; Arthur 
Grissom : Beaux and Belles ; Grace D. Litchfield : Mimosa Leaves ; J- S- Morse : Summer 
Haven Songs; Joseph O^ Connor: Poems; Frederick Peterson: In the Shade of Ygdrasil ; 
R. C. Rogers : The Wind in the Clearing, — For the King ; Alice Wellington Rollins : The 
Ring of Amethyst ; John Lancaster Spalding : America, and Other Poems, — T.he Poet's Praise ; 
H. J. Stockard : Fugitive Lines ; S. H. Thayer : Songs of Sleepy Hollow. 

The a. D. F. Randolph Company, New York. — Elisabeth G. Crane : Sylva ; S. W- Buffield : 
Warp and Woof ; Harriet M. Kimball : Poems ; Mary A. Mason : With the Seasons ; -4. -D. F. 
Randolph : Hopefully Waiting, and Other Verses ; Katrina Trask : Sonnets and Lyrics. 
Mk. George H. Richmond, New York. — Caroline Duer and Alice Duer Miller: Poems. 
Messrs. Rogers & Eastman, Cleveland. — Amy E. Leigh : " If I but Knew." 
Messrs. J. N. Rosbnkbrg & J. M. Proskaubr, New York. — " Columbia Verse." 
The RoYCROFTERS, East Aurora. — L. H. Foote : On the Heights. From "The Philistine," 
— Irving Browne : " At Shakespeare's Grave ; " J. J. Rooney : " The Rabat," " A Beam of 
Light." 

Rudder Publishing Company, New York. — T. F. Day : Songs of Sea and Sail. 
Mr. R. H. Russell, New York. — R. B. Wilson : The Shadows of the Trees. 
G. Sohibmer, New York. — Peyton Van Rensselaer: "At Twilight;" Harry B. Smith: 
" The Armorer's Song," "Song of the Turnkey." 

Messrs. Charles Soribner's Sons, New York. — Anne R. Aldrich : Songs about Life, Love 
and Death ; H. H. Boyesen : Idyls of Norway ; H. C. Bunner : Poems ; Charles de Kay : 
Hesperus ; Mary Mapes Dodge : Along the Way ; Julia C. R. Dorr : Poems ; Eugene Field : 
W^ritings ; Oliver Herford : The Bashful Earthquake ; J. G. Holland : Poetical Writings ; 
Sidney Lanier : Poems ; G. P. Lathrop : Dreams and Days ; G. C. Lodge : Songs of the Wave ; 
C. H. Luders: The Dead Nymph ; E. S. Martin : Little Brother of the" Rich ; Ernest McGaffey : 
Poems of Gun and Rod ; G. P. Morris : Poems ; F. J. O^Brien : Poems and Stories : T. N. Page : 
Befo' de War ; Edith M. Thomas : A Winter Swallow ; W. C. Wilkinson : Poems ; W. B. 
Wright : The Brook. From " Scribner's Magazine," — Alice L. Bunner : " Separation ; " Arthur 
Colton : " A Song with a Discord," " To Faustine ; " Mrs. Margaret G. George Davidson : 
" Moritrra ; " l^Udred Howells : " A Moral in Sevres ; " Marguerite Merington : " Hey Nonny 
No;" Mrs. Miller : "Stevenson's Birthday;" J. H. Morse: " The Wild Geese," "His State- 
ment of the Case ; " Lizette W. Reese : " Tears ; " V. T. Sutphen : " Deep Waters ; " Marie van 
Vorst : " Sing Again ; " Edith Wharton : " Experience." 

Messrs. Small, Maynard & Co., Boston. — ^ Herbert Bates : Songs of Exile ; James Buckham : 
The Heart of Life ; Richard Burton : Dumb in June, — Memorial Day, — Lyrics of Brother- 
hood ; Grace E. Channing Stetson : Sea Drift ; J. V. Cheney : Out of the Silence ; Zitella Cocke : 
A Doric Reed ; Stephen Crane : The Black Riders ; Ernest Crosby : Plain Talk ; Richard Hovey : 
Songs from Vagabondia, — Birth of Galahad, — Taliesin, — Along the Trail ; M. A. D. Howe : 
Shadows ; William Lindsey : Apples of Istakhar ; Josephine P. Peabody : The Wayfarers ; 
Lilla Cabot Perry: Impressions; P. H. Savage: First Poems, — Poems; Evaleen Stein: One 
Way to the Woods ; Charlotte P. Stetson : In this Our World ; Father Tabb : Poems, — Lyrics, 
— Child Verse ; F. R. Torrence : The House of a Hundred Lights ; Walt Whitman : Leaves of 
Grass. 

The Frederick A. Stokes Company, New York. — G. A. Baker : Point Lace and Diamonds ; 
J. V. Cheney : Thisile Drift, — Wood Blooms; Stephen Crane: War is Kind; Mary B. C. 
Hansbrough : Lyrics of Love and Nature ; W. H. Hayne : Sylvan Lyrics ; Walter Learned : 
Between Times ; S. M. Peck : Cap and Bells, — Rings and Love Knots, — Rhymes and Roses ; 
F. D. Sherman : Madrigals and Catches. 

Messrs. Herbert S. Stone & Co., Chicago. — Mary M. Adams : The Choir Visible ; F. F. 
Browne : Volunteer Grain ; Helen Hay : Some Verses ; R. K. Munkittrick : The Acrobatic Muse ; 
George Santayana: Sonnets, and Other Poems. From "The Chap Book," — John Bennett: 
" God Bless You, Dear, To-Day ; " Julian Hawthorne : " Were-Wolf ; " Beatrix D. Lloyd : " Love 
and Time ; " J. W. Palmer : " The Fight at San Jacinto." 

The Clayton F. Summy Co., Chicago. — Theron Brown: " His Majesty." 
Mr. James H. West, Boston. — J. W. Chadwick : Power and Use. 

The Whitaker and Ray Company, San Francisco, Cal. — Herbert Bashford : Songs from 
Puget Sea ; Joaquin Miller : Complete Poetical Works. 

The White-Smith Music Publishing Company, Boston. — R. H. Buck: "Kentucky 
Babe ; " Hattie Whitney : " A Little Dutch Garden." 



COPYRIGHT NOTICE 



Mr. Thomas Whittaker, New York. — C. F. Johnson : What can I do for Brady, and Other 

Verse. 

Messrs. M. Witmark & Sons, New York. — E. D. Barker : " Go Sleep My Honey." 

Mr. Willis Woodward, New York. — Hattie Starr : " Little Alabama Coon." 

The Youth's Companion, Boston. — O. F. Adams ; " On a Grave in Christehurch, Hants ; " 

H. H. Bennett : " The Flag Goes By." 

n 

All rights on poems in this work accredited to any one of the authors whose names are sub- 
joined, — except in those cases already specifically mentioned in the preceding section of this 
copyright notice, — are vested in the said author, — or in his or her legal representatives, as 
noted within parentheses, — and are reserved by the holder or holders of the copyright. 

Publishers of " AN AMERICAN ANTHOLOGY." 
1900 

Henry Abbey ; John Albee ; Anne R. Aldrich (Mrs. Helen M. Reeve Aldrich) ; Elizabeth 
Akers Allen ; 0. C. Auringer ; Charlotte F. Bates ; Katharine L. Bates ; H. A. Beers ; Joel 
Benton ; R. M. Bell ; C. L. Betts ; Ambrose Bierce ; H. A. Blood ; Mary E. Bradley (Heirs of) ; 
Mary G. Brainard ; John Burroughs ; Mary F. Butts ; G. W. Cable ; Amelia W. Carpenter ; 
R. W. Chambers ; J. I. C. Clarke ; T. M. Coan ; T. S. Collier ; Rose Terry Cooke (RoUin H. 
Cooke) ; W. A. Croffut ; Mary K. Dallas (Miss Kyle) ; R. E. Day ; Grace A. Dennen ; 
Mary A. DeVere ; C. M. Dickinson ; Margaret E. Easter ; Elaine Goodale Eastman ; A. W. 
Eaton ; G. T. Elliot ; E. W. Ellsworth ; Julia N. Finch ; Maybury Fleming ; Margaret W. 
Fuller ; W. P. Garrison ; Dora R. Goodale ; A. C. Gordon ; G. F. Gouraud ; David Gray 
(David Gray, Jr.) ; Homer Greene ; E. E. Hale ; A. S. Hardy ; W. W. Harney ; T. L. Harris ; 
Clarence Hawkes; J. R. Hayes; J. L. Heaton ; H. W. Herbert (Mrs. Margaret H. Mather) ; 
Chauncey Hickox ; Mary Thacher Higginson ; C. L. Hildreth (Mrs. Hildreth) ; George Horton ; 
Winifred Howells (William D. Howells) ; Edward Howland (Marie Howland) ; W. R. Hunting- 
ton ; Lawrence Hutton ; J. J. Ingalls ; J. H. Ingham ; J. H. Jackson ; Margaret T. Janvier ; 
Rossiter Johnson; D. S. Jordan; Charles A. Keeler ; J. B. Kenyon ; Frederick Keppel ; 
Hannah P. Kimball ; F. L. Knowles ; H. L. Koopman ; Wilbur I^arremore ; W. C. Lawton ; 
Walter Learned ; Julie M. Lippmann ; Albert Mathews ; Brander Matthews ; W. G. MeCabe ; 
L. E. Mitchell ; Harriet Monroe ; G. E. Montgomery (Mrs. Mary C. Montgomery) ; R. H. 
Newell ; J. B. O'Reilly (James F. Murphy, executor and trustee) ; S. D. Osborne ; Ray Palmer 
(Dr. Charles Ray Palmer) ; Caroline W. Fellowes Paradise ; W. M. Payne ; George Pellew (Mr. 
Henry Pellew) ; Arthur Peterson ; C. H. Phelps ; Elisabeth Pullen ; J. R. Randall ; J. E. 
Rankin; Annie D. Robinson; E. A. Robinson; Lucy Robinson; J. J. Rooney ; Bertha B. 
Runkle ; F. S. Saltus (F. H. Saltus) ; F. B. Sanborn ; Frank Sewall ; Milicent W. Shinn ; 
D. B. Sickels ; H, B. Smith ; Harriet P. Spofford ; Annie R. Stillman ; C. W. Stoddard ; 
Maurice Thompson ; Vance Thompson ; G. A. Townsend ; Horace L. Traubel ; Annie E. 
Trumbull ; Clarence Urmy ; W. H. Ward ; E. F. Ware ; L. D. Warner; J. E. Wayland ; G. M. 
Whicher ; E. L. White ; E. R. White ; William Youn^. 



To 
CYRUS OSBORNE BAKER 



INTRODUCTION 



The reader will comprehend at once that this book was not designed as a Trea- 
sury of imperishable American poems. To make a rigidly eclectic volume would 
be a diversion, and sometimes I have thought to spend a few evenings in obtaining 
two thirds of it from pieces named in the critical essays to which the present 
exhibit is supplementary. In fact, more than one projector of a handbook upon 
the lines of Palgrave's little classic has adopted the plan suggested, and has paid 
a like compliment to the texts revised by the editors of " A Library of American 
Literature." 

But no "Treasury," however well conceived, would forestall the purpose of this 
compilation. It has been made, as indicated upon the title-page, in illustration of 
my review of the poets and poetry of our own land. It was undertaken after 
frequent suggestions from readers of " Poets of America," and bears to that vol- 
ume the relation borne by " A Victorian Anthology " to " Victorian Poets." The 
companion anthologies, British and American, are meant to contain the choicest 
and most typical examples of the poetry of the English tongue during the years 
which they cover. The efEective rise of American poetry was coincident with that 
of the Anglo- Victorian. It has been easy to show a preliminary movement, by 
fairly representing the modicum of verse, that has more than a traditional value, 
earlier than Bryant's and not antedating the Republic. Again, as the foreign 
volume was enlarged by the inclusion of work produced since the "Jubilee Year," 
80 this one extends beyond the course surveyed in 1885, and to the present time. 
This should make it, in a sense, the breviary of our national poetic legacies from 
the nineteenth century to the twentieth. Now that it is finished, it seems, to the 
compiler at least, to afford a view of the successive lyrical motives and results of 
our first hundred years of song, from which the critic or historian may derive 
conclusions and possibly extend his lines into the future. 

When entering upon my task, I cheerfully assumed that it would be less diffi- 
cult than the one preceding it ; for I had traversed much of this home-field in 
prose essays, and once again, — aided by the fine judgment of a colleague, — 



xvi INTRODUCTION 



while examining the whole range of American literature before 1890. Many 
poets, however, then not essential to our purpose, are quoted here. More space 
has been available in a work devoted to verse alone. Other things being equal, I 
naturally have endeavored, though repeating lyrics established by beauty or asso- 
ciation, to make fresh selections^ While verse of late has decreased its vogue as 
compared with that of imaginative prose, yet never has so much of it, good and 
bad, been issued here as within the present decade ; never before were there so 
many rhythmical aspirants whose volumes have found publishers willing to bring 
them out attractively, and never have these tasteful ventures had more assurance 
of a certain, if limited, distribution. The time required for some acquaintance 
with them has not seemed to me misspent ; yet the work of selection was slight 
compared with that of obtaining privileges from authors and book-houses, insuring 
correctness of texts and biographical data, and mastering the countless other 
details of this presentation. My forbearing publishers have derived little comfort 
from its successive postponements in consequence of these exigencies and of the 
editor's ill health. The delay, however, has rounded up more evenly my criticism 
and illustration of English poetry, carrying to the century-'s end this last volume 
of a series so long ago projected. 

The anthologist well may follow the worker in mosaic or stained-glass, to better 
his general effects. Humble bits, low in color, have values of juxtaposition, and 
often bring out to full advantage his more striking material. The representation 
of a leading poet is to be considered by itself, and it is a pleasure to obtain for it 
a prelude and an epilogue, and otherwise to secure a just variety of mood and 
range. I have allotted many pages to the chiefs reviewed at chapter-length in 
'" Poets of America," yet even as to these space is not a sure indication of the 
compiler's own feeling. An inclusion of nearly aU the effective lyrics of Poe, and 
of enough of Emerson to show his translunary spirit at full height, still left each of 
these antipodal bards within smaller confines than are given to Longfellow, — the 
people's " artist of the beautiful " through half a century of steadfast production, 
or ito Whittier — the born balladist, whose manner and purport could not be set 
lfoi*th compactly. Similar disproportions may appear in citation from poets less 
known, the effort being to utilize matter best suited to the general design. Time 
is the test of all traditions, even those of one's own propagating. We stiU can- 
onize as our truest poets men who rose to eminence when poetry overtopped other 



INTRODUCTION 



literary interests, and whose lives were devoted to its production. Yet there was 
an innocent tyranny in the extension of the prerogative accorded to the " elder 
poets " throughout the best days of a worshipful younger generation. The genius 
of new-comers might have been more compulsive if less overshadowed, and if less 
subject to the restrictions of an inauspicious period — that of the years immedi- 
ately before and after the Civil War. Their output I have exhibited somewhat 
freely, as seemed the due of both the living and the dead. To the latter it may 
be the last tribute by one of their own kith and kin ; to all, a tribute justly theirs 
whose choice it was to pursue an art upon which they had been bred and from its 
chiefs had learned beauty, reverence, aspiration, — but which they practised almost 
to alien ears. Not only their colleagues, but those that should have been their 
listeners, had perished, North and Southo To the older members of this circle, — 
those born in the twenties, and thus faUing within the closing division of the First 
Period, — even too little space has been allotted : the facts being that not until 
the Second Period was reached could an estimate be formed of the paging required 
for the entire book, and that then the selections abeady in type could not be 
readjusted. 

A veteran author. Dr. English, recalls an assurance to the editor of American 
compilations famous in the day of Poe and the " Literati," that " his sins," much 
as he had incurred the wrath of the excluded, " were not of omission but of com- 
missiouo" Dr. Griswold performed an historical if not a critical service; he had a 
measure of conscience withal, else Poe would not have chosen him for a literary 
executor. But if this anthology were modelled upon his " Poets and Poetry of 
America " it would occupy a sheK of volumes. I have not hesitated to use any 
fortunate poem, howsoever unpromising its source. A ruby is a ruby, on the fore- 
head of a Joss or found in the garment of a pilgrim. Here and there are included 
verses by masterful personages not writers by profession, and the texts of hymns, 
patriotic lyrics, and other memorabilia that have quaHty. As befits an anthology, 
selections mostly are confined to poems in their entirety, but the aim is to repre- 
sent a poet variously and at his best ; sometimes this cannot be achieved otherwise 
than by extracts from long poems, — by episodes, or other passages efPective in 
themselves. The reader will find but a few extended Odes other than Lowell's 
Commemoration Ode and Stoddard's majestic monody on Lincoln, either of which 
it would be criminal here to truncate. In the foreign compendium there was little 
to present in the dramatic form, and that not often of a high order ; from this 



xviii INTRODUCTION 



volume dramatic dialogue — regretfully in cases like those of Boker and Taylor 
— is excluded altogether, with the exception of an essential specimen in the prefa- 
tory division ; but lyrical interludes from dramas are not infrequent. As to son- 
nets, one often finds them the most serviceable expression of a minor poet. The 
sonnets of two or three Americans take rank with the best of their time, but I 
have tried to avoid those of the everyday grade. Finally, whatsoever a poet's 
standing or the class of selections, my tests are those of merit and anthological 
value, and the result should be judged accordingly. There is no reception more 
distrustful, not to say cynical, than that awarded nowadays to a presentment of 
the artistic effort of one's own time and people. An editor must look upon this as 
in the nature of things, happy if he can persuade his readers to use their own 
glasses somewhat objectiyelyo With regard to a foreign field personal and local 
equations have less force, and to this no doubt I owe the good fortune that thus 
far little exception has been taken to the selection and range of material used for 
" A Victorian Anthology." 

This brings to mind a departure in the following pages from the divisional 
arrangement of the last-named compilation. Essaying almost every method of 
setting forth our own poets, I found it impossible to follow the one which before 
had worked so aptlyo A chronological system proved to be not merely the best, 
but seemingly the only one, applicable to my new needs. 

The ease wherewith the British record permitted a classified arrangement was 
a pleasure to the orderly mind. It crystallized into groups, each animated by a 
master, or made distinct by the fraternization of poets with tastes in common. 
Whether this betokened an advanced or a provincial condition may be debatable, 
and the test of any " set " doubtless involves the measure of self-consciousness. 
Surveying the formative portion of the Victorian era it was easy to find the Rois- 
terers, the Poets of Quality, the several flocks of English, Scottish, and Irish 
minstrels, the Rhapsodists, the Humanitarians, aU preceding the composite idyllic 
school — that with Tennyson at its head. With and after Tennyson came the 
renaissance of the Preraphaelites, and also new balladists, song-writers,, a few 
dramatists, the makers of v6rse-a-la-mode, and so on to the time's end. From all 
this, distinct in the receding past^ it was possible to map out a cartograph as 
logical as the prose survey which it illustrates. But when the latter-day verse- 
makers were reached, an effort to assort them had to be foregone, and not so 



INTRODUCTION xix 



much from lack of perspective as because, with few excej)tions, they revealed more 
traits in common than in differentiation. It would be too much to expect that 
subsequent to the Victorian prime and the going out of its chief luminaries there 
should not be an interval of twilight — with its scattered stars, the Hespers of the 
past, the Phosphors of a day to come. The earlier groups were discernible, and 
reviewed by me, in their full activity ; at present, when prose fiction, instead of 
verse, is the characteristic imaginative product, it is not hard to point out its 
various orders and working-guilds. 

A derogatory inference need not be drawn from the failure of attempts to 
classify the early and later singers of our own land. Poetry led other forms of 
our literature during at least forty years, — say from 1835 to 1875. Neverthe- 
less, hke many observers, I found scarcely a group, excej)t that inspired by the 
Transcendental movement, of more import than an occasional band such as the 
little set of " Croakers " when New York was in its 'teens. With the exception 
of Poe, the dii majores, as they have been termed, alike were interpreters of 
nature, sentiment, patriotism, religion, conviction, though each obtained mark by 
giving accentuated expression to one or two of these fundamental American notes. 
With the added exceptions of Whitman and Lanier, and of Lowell in his dialect 
satire, the leaders' methods and motives have had much in common, and the 
names excepted were not initiative of " schools." There were a few exemplars, 
chiefly outside of New England, of the instinct for poetry as an expression of 
beauty, and of feeling rather than of the convictions which so readily begat 
didacticism ; yet for decades the choir of minor poets have pursued their art in 
the spirit of the leaders and have availed themselves of the same measures and 
diction. 

Variances of the kind arising from conditions of locality and atmosphere have 
always been apparent. An approach can be made to a natural arrangement by 
geographical division somewhat upon the lines of Mr. Piatt's illustrated quarto, in 
which the lyrics and idylls of the Eastern States, the Middle, the Southern, the 
regions of the Middle West and the Pacific Slope, are successively exhibited. 
Until of late, however, the population and literature of the country were so 
restricted to the Atlantic seaboard that this method excites a sense of dispropor- 
tion none the less unpleasing for its fidelity to the record. Thus by a process of 
exclusion the one satisfactory order proved to be the chronological ; this being of 
the greater value since national evolution is more fully reflected in the poetry of 



XX 



INTRODUCTION 



America than in that of countries, further advanced in the arts, wherein lyrical 
expression has derived importance from its literary worth rather than from its 
might as the voice of the people. If it is difficult to assort our poets of any one 
time into classes it chances that they are significantly classified by generations. 
The arrangement of this volume thus depends upon its time-divisions, of which 
the sequence can be traced by a glance at the preliminary Table of Contents. 

Colonial verse, howsoever witty, learned, and godly, is beyond the purview ; 

and well it may be, if only in obeisance to the distich of that rare old colonist, 

Nathaniel Ward, who teUs us in " The Simple Cobbler of Agawam," that 

" Poetry 's a gift wherein but few excel ; 
He doth very ill that doth not passing well." 

Those who wish glimpses of life in New England after the forefathers were mea- 
surably adjusted to new conditions, may acquaint themselves with the lively 
eclogues of our first native poet, Ben Tompson. They wiU find nothing else so 
clever until — a hundred years later — they come upon the verse of Mistress 
Warren, the measures grave and gay of Francis Hopkinson, the sturdy humor of 
Trumbull and his fellow-wits. Barlow's " Columbiad " certainly belonged to 
neither an Homeric nor an Augustan age. Contemporary with its begetter was a 
true poet, one of nature's lyrists, who had the temperament of a Landor and was 
much what the Warwick classicist might have been if bred, afar from Oxford, to 
the life of a pioneer and revolutionist, spending his vital surplusage in action, 
bellicose journalism, and new-world verse. A few of Freneau's selecter songs and 
baUads long have been a part of literature, and with additions constitute my first 
gleanings of what was genuinely poetic in the years before Bryant earned his 
title as the father of American song. In that preliminary stage, an acting-drama 
began with Tyler and Dunlap and should have made better progress in the haLE- 
century ensuing. A dialect-ballad of the time, " The Country-Lovers," by Fes- 
senden of New Hampshire, though unsuited to this Anthology, is a composition 
from which Lowell seems to have precipitated the native gold of " The Courtin'." 
Apart from these I think that sufficient, if not aU, of what the opening years have 
to show of poetic value or association may be found in the selections from Freneau 
and others earlier than the First Lyrical Period, — a period which Pierpont, de- 
spite his birth-record, is entitled to lead ofB, considering the date of his first publi- 
cations and the relation of his muse to an heroic future. 



INTRODUCTION 



Accepting the advent of Bryant and Pierpont.as the outset of a home min- 
strelsy which never since has failed of maintenance, our course hithei'to divides 
itself readily into two jjeriods, with the CivU War as a transitional rest between. 
The First ends with that national metamorphosis of which the impassioned verse 
of a few writers, giving no uncertain sound, was the prophecy and inspiration. 
The antecedent struggle was so absorbing that any conception of poetry as an art 
to be pursued for its own sake was at best not current ; yet beauty was not infre- 
quent in the strain of even the anti-slavery bards, and meanwhile one American 
singer was giving it his entire allegiance. Before reverting to these antebellum 
conditions, it should be noted that a Second Period began with the war olympiad, 
lasting to a date that enables a compiler to distinguish its stronger representatives 
until the beginning of the century's final decade. To complete the survey I add a 
liberal aftermath of verse produced in these last ten years ; for it seems worth 
while to favor a rather inclusive chartage of the tendencies, even the minor cur- 
rents and eddies, which the poetry of our younger writers reveals to those who 
care for it. As to omitted names, I reflect that their bearers well may trust to 
anthologists of the future, rather than to have lines embalmed here for which in 
later days they may not care to be held to account. 

The' sub-divisions of each of the lyrical periods, — covering, as to the First 
Period, three terms of about fifteen years each, and as to the Second, three of ten 
years each, represent hterary generations, some of which so overlap one another 
as to be in a sense contemporary. Finally, the " Additional Selections " at the 
end of every sub-division, and succeeding the preliminary and supplementary 
pages, are for the most part chronologically ordered as concerns any specific group 
of poems. These addenda have afEorded a serviceable means of preserving notable 
" single poems," and of paying attention to not a few unpretentious writers who, 
while uttering true notes, have obeyed Wordsworth's, injunction to shine in their 
places and " be content." 

Here I wish to set down a few conclusions, not so much in regard to the interest 
of the whole compilation as to its value in any summary of the later poetry of our 
English tongue. 

When I told a New York publisher — a University man, whose judgment is 
well entitled to respect — that I had this book in mind as the final number of 
a series and as a companion to the British volume, he replied off-hand : " You 



INTRODUCTION 



cannot make it haK so good as the other : we have n't the material." This I was 
not ready to dispute, yet was aware of having entertained a feeHng, since writing 
*' Poets of America," that if a native anthology must yield to the foreign one in 
wealth of choice production, it might prove to be, from an equally vital point of 
view, the more significant of the two. Now having ended my labor, that feeling 
has become a belief which possibly may be shared by others willing to consider 
the grounds of its formation. 

In demurring to what certainly is a general impression, the first inquiry must 
be : What then constitutes the significance of a body of rhythmical literature as 
found in either of these anthologies, each restricted to its own territory, and both 
cast in the same epoch and language ? Undoubtedly, and first of all, the essen- 
tial qviality of its material as poetry ; next to this, its quality as an expression and 
interpretation of the time itself. In many an era the second factor may aiford a 
surer means of estimate than the first, inasmuch as the purely literary result may 
be nothing rarer than what the world already has possessed, nor greatly differing 
from it ; nevertheless, it may be the voice of a time, of a generation, of a people, 

— all of extraordinary import to the world's future. A new constructive standard 
was set by Tennyson, with increase rather than reduction of intellectual power, 
but shortly before the art of the laureate and his school there was little to choose 
in technical matters between English and American rhythmists, Landor always 
excepted. Since the Georgian hey-day, imagination of the creative order scarcely 
has been dominant, nor is it so in any composite and idyllic era. Our own poetry 
excels as a recognizable voice in utterance of the emotions of a people. The storm 
and stress of youth have been upon us, and the nation has not lacked its lyric cry ; 
meanwhile the typical sentiments of piety, domesticity, freedom, have made our 
less impassioned verse at least sincere. One who underrates the significance of 
our literature, prose or verse, as both the expression and the stimulant of national 
feeling, as of import in the past and to the future of America, and therefore of the 
world, is deficient in that critical insight which can judge even of its own day 
unwarped by personal taste or deference to public impression. He shuts his eyes 
to the fact that at times, notably throughout the years resulting in the Civil War, 
this literature has been a " force." Its verse until the dominance of prose fiction 

— well into the seventies, let us say — formed the staple of current reading ; and 
fortunate it was — while pirated foreign writings, sold cheaply everywhere, 
handicapped the evolution of a native prose school — that the books of the " elder 



INTRODUCTION xxiii 



American poets " lay on the centre-tables of our households and were read with 
zest by young and old. They were not the fosterers of new-world liberty and 
aspiration solely ; beyond this, in the case of Longfellow for example, the legends 
read between the lines made his verse as welcome in Great Britain as among his 
own country-folk. The criterion of poetry is not its instant vogue with the ill- 
informed classes ; yet when it is the utterance of an ardent people, as in the works 
of Longfellow, Bryant, Emerson, Lowell, Whittier, it once more assumes its 
ancient and rightful place as the art originative of belief and deed. Emerson 
presented such a union of spiritual and civic insight with dithyrambic genius as 
may not be seen again. His thought is now congenital throughout vast reaches, 
among new peoples scarcely conscious of its derivation. The transcendentalists, 
as a whole, for all their lapses into didacticism, made and left an impress. Long- 
fellow and his pupils, for their part, excited for our people the old-world sense of 
beauty and romance, until they sought for a beauty of their own and developed a 
new literary manner — touched by that of the motherland, yet with a difference ; 
the counterpart of that " national likeness " so elusive, yet so instantly recognized 
when chanced upon abroad. In Bryant, often pronounced cold and granitic by 
readers bred to the coj)ious-worded verse of modern times, is found the large 
imagination that befits a progenitor. It was stirred, as that of no future Ameri- 
can can be, by his observation of primeval nature. He saw her virgin mountains, 
rivers, forests, prairies, broadly ; and his vocabulary, scant and doric as it was, 
proved sufficient — in fact the best — for nature's elemental bard. His master 
may have been Wordsworth, but the difference between the two is that of the 
prairie and the moor, Ontario and Windermere, the Hudson and the Wye. From 
" Thanatopsis " in liis youth to " The Flood of Years " in his hoary age, Bryant 
was conscious of the overstress of Nature unmodified by human occupation and 
training. It is not surprising that Whitman — though it was from Emerson he 
learned to follow his own genius — so often expressed himself as in sympathy 
with Bryant, above other American poets, on the imaginative side. The elemen- 
tal quality of the two is what makes them akin ; what differentiates them is not 
alone their styles, but the advance of Whitman's generation from the homogeneous 
to the heterogeneous. The younger minstrel, to use his own phrase, also saw 
things en mousse ; but in his day and vision the synthesis of the new world was 
that of populous hordes surging here and there in the currents of democracy. 
Bryant is the poet of the ages, Whitman of the generations. The aesthetic note 



INTRODUCTION 



of poetry was restored by Longfellow, in his Vergilian office, and by Edgar Poe 
with surer magic and endurance. Has any singer of our time more demonstrably 
affected the rhythmical methods of various lands than Poe with his few but 
haunting paradigms ? He gave a saving grace of melody and illusion to French 
classicism, to English didactics, — to the romance of Europe from Italy to Scan- 
dinavia. It is now pretty clear, notwithstanding the popularity of Longfellow in 
his day, that Emerson, Poe, and Whitman were those of our poets from whom the 
old world had most to learn ; such is the worth, let the young writer note, of seek- 
ing inspiration from within, instead of copying the exquisite achievements of mas- 
ters to whom we all resort for edification, — that is, for our own delight, which is 
not the chief end of the artist's throes. Our three most individual minstrels are 
now the most alive, resembling one another only in having each possessed the 
genius that originates. Years from now, it will be matter of fact that their influ- 
ences were as lasting as those of any poets of this century. 

The polemic work of Whittier, Lowell, and their allies, illustrates the applied 
force of lyrical expression. Their poetry of agitation scarcely found a counterpart 
on the Southern side until the four-years' conflict began ; yet any study of the causes 
and conduct of that war confirms our respect for Fletcher's sage who cared to 
make the ballads of a nation rather than its laws. His saying never applies more 
shrewdly than at the stage of a nation's formation when the slightest deflection 
must needs be the equivalent of a vast arc in the circle of its futurity. It is 
strange to realize that the young now view the Civil War from a distance almost 
equal to that between their seniors' childhood and the war of 1812 — the veterans 
of which we watched with kindly humor when their lessening remnant still kept 
up its musty commemorations. Our youth know the immeasurably larger scope 
of the mid-century struggle ; they cannot understand from the echo of its trumpet- 
ings the music of a time when one half of a people fought for a moral sentiment, 
— the other, for a birthright which pride would not forego. Even the mother- 
land, though gaining a fresh view from that convulsion and its outcome, formed 
no adequate understanding of her progeny over sea. Years go by, and the oceans 
are held in common, and the world is learning that our past foretokened a new 
domain in art, letters, and accomplishment, of which we have barely touched the 
oorder. Making every allowance for the gratia hospitum, a recent visitor, Wil- 
liam Archer, need not fear to stand by what he had the perception to discover and 
the courage to declare. In his judgment, " the whole world wiU one day come to 



INTRODUCTION xxv 



hold Vicksburg and Gettysburg names of larger historic import than Waterloo or 
Sedan." If this be so, the significance of a literature of all kinds that led up to 
the " sudden making " of those " splendid names " is not to be gainsaid. Mr. 
HoweUs aptly has pointed out that war does not often add to great art or poetry, 
but the white heat of lyric utterance has preceded many a campaign, and never 
more effectively than in the years before our fight for what Mr. Archer calls " the 
preservation of the national idea." Therefore an American does not seem to me 
a laudable reader who does not estimate the following presentation in the full 
light of aU that his country has been, is, and is to be. 

Time has not clouded, but cleared, the lenses through which our neophytes 
regard those distant movements so fully in accord with the modern spirit as Poe's 
renaissance of art for' beauty's sake, and Whitman's revolt against social and 
literary traditions. The academic vantage no less held its own with Parsons and 
Holmes as maintainers, — the former our purest classicist, and a translator equalled 
only by Bayard Taylor. The stately elegance of Parsons limited his audience, 
yet perfected the strength of his ode " On a Bust of Dante," than which no finer 
lyric ennobles this collection. Holmes's grace, humor, contemporaneousness, 
brought him into favor again and again, and the closing days of a sparkling career 
were the most zestful for the acknowledged master of new " architects of airy 
rhyme " on each side of the Atlantic. In Lowell, the many-sided, the best 
equipped, and withal the most spontaneous, of these worthies, their traits were 
combined. Never was there a singer at once so learned and so unstudied ; no 
other American took the range that lies between the truth and feeling of his 
dialect verse and the height of his national odes. 

This is not a critical Introduction, and the writer need not dwell upon the 
shortcomings of our still famous matin choir. These were discussed in commen- 
taries that differ very little from what they would be if written now, though after 
this farther lapse of time I might not enter upon such judgments with the glow 
and interest of the earlier years, when those hoar and laurelled heads still shone 
benignantly above us. 

Along the century's midway, a group of somewhat younger poets appeared, 
whose places of birth or settlement rendered them less subject to the homiletic 
mood which even LoweU recognized as his own besetting drawback. Taylor, 
Boker, Stoddard, Read, Story, and their allies, wrote poetry for the sheer love of 
it. They did much beautiful work, with a cosmopolitan and artistic bent, making 



xxvi INTRODUCTION 



it a part of the varied industry of men of letters ; in fact, they were creating a 
civic Arcadia of their own, — but then came the tempest that sent poets and 
preachers alike to the storm-cellars, and certainly made roundelays seem inappo- 
site as the " pleasing of a lute." Yet my expositions of the then current writers, 
taken with the sheaf of popular war-songs, Northern and Southern, bound up in a 
single section, prove that the fury of the fight called forth inspiring strains. Some 
of these were as quickly caught up by the public as were the best known efforts 
of the laureate of Anglo-Saxon expansion in a recent day. On the whole, the 
stern and dreadful war for the Union produced its due share of the lays of heroism 
and endeavor. But then, as oftentimes, pieces that outrivalled others were wont 
to have the temporal quality that does not make for an abiding place among the 
little classics of absolute song. 

As the country slowly emerged from the shadow, its elder bards hung up their 
clarions, and betook themselves to the music of contentment and peace. Their 
heirs apparent were few and scattered ; encouragement was small during years of 
reconstruction, and without the stimulus of a literary " market ; " yet the exhibit 
in the first division of the post-bellum period shows that song had a share in the 
awakening of new emotional and aesthetic expression. Fifteen or twenty years 
more, and a resort to letters as a means of subsistence was well under way, — and 
like a late spring, vigorous when once it came. Poets, in spite of the proverb, 
sing best when fed by wage or inheritance. The progress of American journals, 
magazines, and the book-trade coincided with a wider extension of readers than 
we had known before. Such a condition may not foster the creative originality 
that comes at the price of blood and tears, but it has resulted in a hopeful prelude 
to whatsoever masterwork the next era has in store. The taste, charm, and not 
infrequent elevation of the verse contained in the three divisions of the second 
portion of this compilation render that portion, in its own way, a fit companion to 
the series preceding it. One must forego tradition to recognize this ; in the Hall 
of Letters, as in Congress and wherever a levelling-up movement has prevailed, 
talent is less conspicuous by isolation than of old. The main distinction between 
the two Periods is a matter of dynamics ; the second has had less to do with pub- 
lic tendencies and events. It has had none the less a force of its own : that of the 
beauty and enlightenment which shape the ground for larger offices hereafter,, by 
devotees possibly no more gifted than their forbears, yet farther up the altar steps. 
In its consistency, tested by what went before, it stands comparison as reasonably 



INTRODUCTION 



as the product of the later Victorian artificers, when gauged by that of Tennyson, 
Arnold, the Brownings, and their colleagues. 

It is not my province to specify the chief wi'itei'S of this Period, so many of 
whom are still with us. As the country has grown, the Eastern song-helt has 
widened, and other divisions have found voice. The middle West quickly had 
poets to depict its broad and plenteous security ; and more lately very original 
notes have come from territory bordering upon the Western Lakes. The Pacific 
coast and the national steppes and ranges as yet scarcely have found adequate 
utterance, though not without a few open-air minstrels. Dialect and folk-lore 
verse represents the new South ; its abundant talent has been concerned otherwise 
with prose romance ; yet the song of one woman, in a border State, equals in 
beauty that of any recent lyrist. American poets stiU inherit longevity. Since 
the premature death of the thrice-lamented Taylor — at a moment when he was 
ready to begin the life of Goethe which none could doubt would be a consummate 
work — a few others have gone that should have died hereafter. Sill was a 
sweet and wise diviner, of a type with Clough and Arnold. O'Reilly is zealously 
remembered, both the poet and the man. In Emma Lazarus a star went out, the 
western beacon of her oriental race. When Sidney Lanier died, not only the 
South that bore him, but the country and our English rhythm underwent the loss 
of a rare being — one who was seeking out the absolute harmony, and whose ex- 
periments, incipient as they were, were along the pathways of discovery. Eugene 
Field's departure lessened our laughter, wit, and tears. In tlie present year. 
Hovey, whom the new century seemed just ready to place among its choristers, 
was forbidden to outlive the completion of the intensely lyrical " Taliesin," his 
melodious swan-song. 

To end this retrospect, it may be said that the imaginative faculty, of which 
both the metrical and the prose inventions alike were termed poetry by the 
ancients, has not lain dormant in the century's last quarter ; although certain 
conditions, recognized in the opening chapter of " Victorian Poets " as close at 
hand, have obtained beyond doubt. The rhythm of verse is less essayed than 
that of prose — now the vehicle of our most favored craftsmen. Already books 
are written to show how an evolution of the novel has succeeded to that of the 
poem, which is true — and in what wise prose fiction is the higher form of litera- 
ture, which is not yet proved. The novelist has outsped the poet in absorbing 
a new ideality conditioned by the advance of science ; again, he has cleverly 



xxviii INTRODUCTION 



adjusted his work to the facilities and drawbacks of modern journalism. It is 
not strange that there should be a distaste for poetic illusion in an era when eco- 
nomics, no longer the dismal science, becomes a more fascinating study than 
letters, while its teachers have their fill of undergraduate hero-worship. At last 
a change is perceptible at the universities, a strengthening in the faculties of Eng- 
lish, a literary appetite that grows by what it feeds on. Letters, and that consen- 
sus of poetry and science foreseen by Wordsworth, may well be taken into account 
in any vaticination of the early future. Meanwhile, what do we have ? Here as 
abroad — and even if for the moment there appears no one of those excepted mas- 
ters who of themselves re-create their age — there continues an exercise of the 
poet's art by many whose trick of song persists under all conditions. Our after- 
glow is not discouraging. We have a twilight interval, with minor voices and 
their tentative modes and tones ; stiU, the dusk is not silent, and rest and 
shadow with music between the dawns are a part of the liturgy of life, no less than 
passion and achievement. 

The reader will hardly fail to observe special phases of the middle and later 
portions of this compilation. In my reviews of the home-school a tribute was 
paid to the high quality of the verse proffered by our countrywomen. This 
brought out a witticism to the effect that such recognition would savor less of gal- 
lantry if more than a page or two, in so large a volume, had been reserved for 
expatiation upon the tuneful sisterhood. That book was composed of essays 
upon a group of elder poets, among whom no woman chanced to figure. A single 
chapter embraced a swift characterization of the choir at large, and in this our 
female poets obtained proportional attention as aforesaid. The tribute was honest, 
and must be rendered by any one who knows the field. A succession of rarely 
endowed women-singers, that began — not to go back to the time of Maria Brooks 
— near the middle of the century, still continues unbroken. Much of their song 
has been exquisite, some of it strong as sweet ; indeed, a notable portion of our 
treasure-trove would be missing if their space in the present volume were other- 
wise filled. Not that by force of numbers and excellence women bear off the 
chief trophies of poetry, prose fiction, and the other arts ; thus far the sex's 
achievements, in a time half seriously styled " the woman's age," are still more 
evident elsewhere. It cannot yet be said of the Parnassian temple, as of the 
Church, that it would have no parishioners, and the service no participants, if it 



INTRODUCTION 



were not for women. The work of their brother poets is not emasculate, and will 
not be while grace and tenderness fail to make men cowards, and beauty remains 
the flower of strength. Yet for assurance of the fact that their contribution to the 
song of America is remarkable, and even more so than it has been — leaving out 
the work of Elizabeth Browning — to that of Great Britain, one need only examine 
its representation in this anthology. I am not so adventurous as to mention 
names, but am confident that none will be ungrateful for my liberal selections from 
the verse upon the quahty of which the foregoing statement must stand or fall. 

Poetry being a rhythmical expression of emotion and ideaHty, its practice as a 
kind of artistic finesse is rightly deprecated, though even this may be approved in 
the young composer unconsciously gaining his mastery of technique. Our recent 
verse has been subjected to criticism as void of true passion, nice but fickle in 
expression, and having nothing compulsive to express. An international journal 
declares that " our poets are not thinking of what they shall say, for that lies close 
at hand, but of how they shall say it." On the whole, I suspect this to be more 
true abroad than here : our own metrists, if the less dexterous, are not without 
motive. There was said to be a lack of vigorous lyrics on the occasion of our 
war with Spain. The world-changing results of the war wUl find their artistic 
equivalent at sudden times when the observer, Uke Keats's watcher of the skies, 
sees the " new planet swim into his ken " — or at least finds this old planet made 
anew. Anglo-Saxon expansion or imperialism, call it as we wiU, has inspired one 
British poet, yet he is so much more racial than national that America claims a 
share in him. As for our poetry of the Spanish war, I think that sufiicient wiU 
be found in my closing pages to indicate that our quickstep was enlivened by a 
reasonable measure of prosody. The Civil War was a different matter — pre- 
ceded by years of excitement, and at last waged with gigantic conflicts and count- 
less tragic interludes, until every home was desolate. North or South. Men and 
women still survive who — with Brownell, Willson, and others of the dead — 
made songs and ballads that, as I have said, were known the world over. Why 
should these veteran celebrants decline upon lesser themes, or not stand aside and 
let the juniors have their chance ? The latter had scarcely tuned their strings 
when the Spanish fight was over. Still more to the point is the fact that poets of 
all time have been on the side of revolt. Our own, however patriotic, when there 
was so little of tragedy and the tug of war to endure, felt no exultation in chant- 
ing a feeble enemy's deathsong. 



INTRODUCTION 



In any intermediary lyrical period its effect upon the listener is apt to be ont 
of experiment and vacillation. It is true that much correct verse is written with- 
out inspiration, and as an act of taste. The makers seem artists, rather thar 
poets : they work in the spirit of the graver and decorator ; even as idyllists theii 
appeal is to the bodily eye ; they are over-careful of the look of words, and nol 
only of their little pictures, but of the frames that contain them, — book-cover, 
margin, paper, adornment. That lyrical compositions should go forth in attrac- 
tive guise is delectable, but not the one thing needful for the true poet, whose I 
strength lies in that which distinguishes him from other artists, not in what is 
common to all. While making a fair presentation of the new modes and tenden- 
cies of the now somewhat timorous art of song, a guess at what may come out of 
them is far more difficult than were the prognostications of thirty years ago. 
Each phase has its own little grace or effect, like those of the conglomerate modern 
piano-music. Among those less rational than others I class attempts to introduce 
values absolutely exotic. The contention for a broad freedom in the chief of arts 
is sound. It may prove all things, and that which is good will stay. Owing to 
our farther remove from the European continent, foreign methods are essayed with 
us less sedulously than by the British minor poets. Both they and we were suc- 
cessful in a passing adoption of the " French forms," which, pertaining to con- 
struction chiefly, are common to various literatures. In attempting to follow the 
Gallic cadences and linguistic effects our kinsmen were bound to fail. Our own* 
craftsmen even less have been able to capture graces quite inseparable from the 
specific rhythm, color, diction, that constitute the highly sensuous beauty of the 
modern French school. A painter, sculptor, or architect — his medium of expres- 
sion being a universal one — can utilize foreign methods, if at a loss for some- 
thing of his own. But there has not been an English-speaking captive to the 
bewitchment of the French rhythm and symbolism who has not achieved far less 
than if he had held fast to the resources of his native tongue. Literatures lend 
things of worth to one another, but only as auxiliaries and by gradual stages. 
Between the free carol of the English lyric, from the Elizabethan to the Victorian, 
and the noble variations of English blank verse in its every age and vogue, our 
poets have liberties enow, and will rarely go afield except under suspicion of rein- 
forcing barren invention with a novel garniture. The technique of the lyrical Sym- 
bolists, for instance, is at best a means rather than an end. Though pertinent to 
the French language and spirit, it is apt, even in France and Belgium, to substitute 



INTRODUCTION xxxi 



poetic material for creative design. That very language is so constituted that we 
cannot transmute its essential genius ; tiiose who think otherwise do not think 
in French, and even an imperfect appreciation of the tongue, and of its graces and 
limitations, should better inform them. Titles also are misleading : every poet is 
a symbolist in the radical sense, but not for the sake of the symbol. The glory of 
English poetry lies in its imagination and in its strength of thought and feeling. 
Deliberate artifices chill the force of spontaneity ; but at the worst we have the 
certainty of their automatic correction by repeated failures. 

Even as concerns the homely, shghted shepherd's trade, there is a gain in 
having our escape from provincialism indicated by distrust of inapt models, and 
through an appeal to our own constituency rather than to the outer world. The 
intermingling of peoples has qualified Binney Wallace's saying that " a foreign 
nation is a kind of contemporaneous posterity." The question as to a British or 
American production now must be. What is the verdict of the Enghsh-speaking 
world ? To that vast jury the United States now contributes the largest contin- 
gent of intelligent members. Our poets who sing for their own countrymen will 
not go far wrong, whether or not they bear in mind the quest for " local color,"- -" 
as to which it can be averred that our elder group honestly expressed the nature 
life, sentiment, of its seacoast habitat, the oldest and therefore most Amerii aii 
portion of this country. Younger settlements have fallen into line, with new i '^'1 
unmistakable qualities of diction, character, atmosphere. Our kinsmen, in tl ■ 
pursuit of local color, more or less deceive themselves ; with all its human zest ■;- 
is but a secondary value in art, though work surcharged with it is often good 
its kind, while higher efforts are likely to fall short. When found, we sometin 
fail to recognize it, or care no more for it than for those provincial newspap' 
which are so racy to native readers and so tedious to the sojourner. What for- 
eigners really long for is something radically new and creative. In any case, 
praise or dispraise from abroad is now of less import than the judgment of that 
land in which a work is produced. The method and spirit peculiar to a region 
make for " an addition to literature," but a work conveying them must have the 
universal cast to be enduring, though its author waits the longer for recognition. 
But this was always so ; the artist gains his earliest satisfaction from the compre- 
hension of his own guild. Time and his measure of worth may do the rest for 
him. 

A public indifference to the higher forms of poetry is none the less hard to 



xxxii INTRODUCTION 



bear. A collective edition of an admired poet's lifework, with not a line in its 
volumes that is not melodious, or elegant, or imaginative, or aU combined, and to 
which he has applied his mature and fastidious standards, appears without being 
made the subject of gratulation or extended review. A fresh and noble lyric, of 
some established order, gains small attention, while fetching trifles are taken up 
l?y the press. If a fair equivalent of the " Ode to a Nightingale " were now to 
come into print, a reviewer of the magazine containing it doubtless might content 

himself with saying : " There is also a poem by Mr. ." But this, after aU, in 

its stolid fashion may betoken a preference for something revelatory of the infinite 
unexplored domain of poetic values ; a sense that we have a sufficiency of verse 
which, however fine, is conformed to typical masterpieces ; a desire for variants in 
creative beauty to stimulate us until they each, in turn, shall also pass into an 
academic grade. 

In offering this final volume of a series that has diverted me from projects 
more in the humor of the hour, I feel a touch of that depression which follows a 
long task, and almost ask whether it has been worth completion. Would not the 
labor have been better expended, for example, upon criticism of our prose fiction .'' 
The muse sits neglected, if not forspent, in the hemicycle of the arts : — 

" Dark Science broods in Fancy's hermitage, 

The rainbow fades, — and hushed they say is Song 
With those high bards who lingering charmed the age 
Ere one by one they joined the statued throng." 

Yet after this verification of my early forecast, why should not the subsidiary 
prediction — that of poesy's return to dignity and favor — no less prove true ? As 
it is, having gone too far to change for other roads, I followed the course whether 
lighted by the setting or the rising sun. Concerning the nature and survival of 
poetry much is said in view of the apparent condition. Song is conceded to be 
the language of youth, the voice of primitive races, — whence an inference that its 
service in the English tongue is near an end. But surely poetry is more than the 
analogue of even those folk-songs to which composers recur in aftertime and out 
of them frame masterpieces. Its function is continuous with the rhythm to which 
emotion, age after age, must resort for a supreme delivery, — the vibration that 
not only delights the soul of infancy, but quavers along the heights of reason and 
intelligence. 



INTRODUCTION 



If the word " lost " can be applied to any one of the arts, it is to poetry last of 
all. Not so long ago it was linked with sculpture, now the crowning triumph 
of a world's exposition. We must be slow to claim for any century supereminence 
as the poetic age. Our own country, to return, has not been that of a primitive 
people, colonial or under the republic ; and among all peoples once emerged from 
childhood modes of expression shift in use and favor, and there are many rounds 
of youth, prime, and decadence. Spring comes and goes and comes again, while 
each season has its own invention or restoration. The new enlightenment must be 
taken above aU into account. The world is too interwelded to afford many more 
examples of a decline hke Spain's, — in whose case the comment that a nation of 
lute-players could never whip a nation of machinists was not a cynicism but a 
study in ethnology. Her lustration probably was essential to a new departure ; 
while as for America, she has indeed her brawn and force, but is only entering 
upon her song, nor does a brood of minor poets imply that she has passed a cli- 
macteric. It will be long before our people need fear even the springtime ener- 
vation of their instinctive sense of beauty, now more in evidence with every year. 

More likely they have not yet completed a single round, inasmuch as there has 
been thus far so little of the indubitably dramatic in our rhythmical production. 
The poetic drama more than once has marked a culmination of imaginative liter- 
ature. Constructively, it is the highest form of poetry, because it includes aU 
others metrical or recitative ; psychologically, stiU the highest, going beyond the 
epic presentment of external life and action : not only rendering deeds, but set- 
ting bare the workings of the soul. I believe that, later than Shakespeare's day, 
the height of utterance in his mode and tongue is not of the past, but still to be 
attained by us. Thus poetry is indeed the spirit and voice of youth, but the 
thought of sages, and of every age. Our own will have its speech again, and as 
much more quickly than after former periods of disuse as the processes of action 
and reaction speed swiftlier than of old. To one bred to look before and after 
this talk of atrophy seems childish, when he bears in mind what lifeless stretches 
preceded the Miltonic and the Georgian outbursts. A patise, a rest, has been 
indicated, at this time especially innocuous and the safeguard against cloying ; 
meantime our new-fledged genius has not been listless, but testing the wing in 
fields outside the lyric hedgerows. In the near future the world, and surely its 
alertest and most aspiring country, will not lack for poets. Whatsoever the prog- 
nosis, one thing is to be gained from a compilation of the songs of many : this or 



INTRODUCTION 



that singer may be humble, an everyday personage among his fellows, but in his 
verse we have that better part of nature which overtops the evil in us all, and by 
the potency of which a race looks forward that else would straggle to the rear. 

Compact Biographical N otes upon all the poets represented, as in " A Victorian 
Anthology," follow the main text of this book. They have been prepared by 
various hands, and revised by the editor — occasionally with a brief comment 
upon some name too recent to be found in the critical volume, " Poets of Amer- 
ica." 

For texts I have depended upon piy own shelves, the public libraries, and the 
private stores of Mr. R. H. Stoddard and other colleagues. Acknowledgment is 
made to Mr. C. Alexander Nelson, of Columbia University, and to Mr. Robert 
Bridges, for repeated courtesies. Important aid has been derived from the Librarian 
of Brown University, Mr. Harry Lyman Koopman, and from the Harris- Anthony 
collection of American poetry within his charge. There is an enviable opportu- 
nity for the friends of this notable collection to place it beyond rivalry by filling in 
many of its gaps, and by making copious additions from the output of the last 
twenty years. 

Throughout two years occupied with the main portion of the compilation, a time 
of frequent disability, I have owed much to the unstinted and competent service 
of Miss Ella M. Boult, B. L., who has been in every sense my assistant-editor, — 
not only as to matters of routine, but in the exercise of literary judgment. In 
correspondence, proof-reading, and textual revision, Miss Laura Stedman has been 
a zealous subordinate, and has paid special attention to the Biographical Notes. 
Many of the latter have been written by Miss Lucy C BuU (now Mrs. Robinson) 
and Miss Beatrix D. Lloyd. At the inception of my task, I was aided by Miss 
Mary Stuart McKinney and Miss Louise Boynton, A. B. Miss McKinney, who 
had previous experience in connection with the Victorian Anthology, was the 
valued assistant-editor of the opening division of the present collection. 

The attention of compilers and others is directed to the list of proprietary books 
and writings, under the copyright notices which foUow the title-page. This 
anthology could not be issued without the friendly cooperation of American pub- 
lishers, and pains has been taken to canserve their rights by legal specification at 
the outset, and in some instances by notices elsewhere. Where it has been doubt- 
ful whether rights exist, and, if so, under what ownership, the editor relies upon 
the indulgence of all concerned. My thanks are due to living authors, and to the 
heirs of the dead, for placing works at my disposal without restriction as to 
the character or extent of citations. The verse of one American writer, now living 
abroad, has been omitted at his own request. One or two Canadian poets, whose 
residence and service are now on this side of the border, are justly in such favor 
that I would seek to represent them here were not their songs and ballads already 
a choice portion of a Colonial division in the British compilation. E. C. S. 

Lawkence Park, Bronxvillk, New York, 
August, 1900. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



I. EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION 

(the quarter-century preceding BRYANT AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES) 



|)f)Uip JFrencatt 



' The Fading Eose " 
- In " Female Frail- 



EuTAw Springs 
Epitaph — From 
Song op Thyrsis 

TY " 

The Wild Honeysuckle . 
The Indian Burying-Grotjnd 
Death's Epitaph — From " The House 

OP Night " 

The Parting Glass . . . • 
On the Ruins of a Country Inn . 
On a Travelling Speculator 
The Scurrilous Scribe 

To a Caty-Did 

To A Honey Bee .... 
Plato to Theon 

^titl)or SEnfottnU 

The Yankee Man-ojf-War 

The Smooth Divine . . . . 
Love to the Church 

Days op my Youth . . . . 

Darby and Joan .... 



PAGE 

3 



ElejcanUcr Wilson 

iman's Hymn 

Bird .... 



The Fisherman's Hymn 
The Blue-Bird . 



To Sally. 

The Lip and the Heart . 



10 



10 



11 



12 
12 



18 
13 



^Tosepl^ |)opfeinson 

Hail Columbia 



Song 

Sleighing Song 



Clement Clarke ifloore 

A Visit from St. Nicholas 

iFrancis ^cott Eep 

The Star-Spangled Banner 

^famefii Uivkt IJattlUins 

The Old Man's Carousal 

America to Great Britain 

Rosalie 

On the Late S. T. Coleridge . 

CI)Dmas ^astinffs 

The Latter Day 

In Sorrow 

Exhortation .... 



Samuel Woati)3i(iXt)) 



The Bucket . 
Loves she like me ? 



PAQB 

, 14 



14 
15 



15 



16 



17 



18 
18 
18 



19 
19 
19 



20 
20 



EtcbarU ^enrp ^ana 

The Little Beach-Bird . . .21 

Immortality 21 

The Chanting , Cherubs — A Group 

BY Greenough 22 

The Moss supplicateth for the Poet 22 



XXXVl 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



^aral) 2rosep|)a |)ale 

Alice Ray . . . . . 
The Watcher . . . . 



23 

24 



The Demon-Lovek — From "Hadad" 24 

EicbarU ^cnrj> Wiltit 

Stanzas 21 

A Farewell to America. . . 27 
To the Mocking-Bird . . . .27 



SHjUittonal Selections 

(chosen PKOM AMERICAN VERSE OF THE TIME) 

On Snow-Flakes melting on his 
Lady's Breast .... 28 
William Martin Johnson 



On the Death of my Son Charles . 28 

• DAjrasL Webster 



Privatb Devotion 

Phoebe Hinsdale Brown 



28 



Hymn for the Dedication of a 
Church 29 

Andrews Norton 

Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep 29 

Emma Hart Willard 



The Soul's Defiance . 

Lavinia Stoddard 

A Name in the Sand 

Hannah Flago Gould 



My Brigantine 

James Fenimore Coopeb 



29 
30 
30 



II. FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD 

(in three divisions) 



DIVISION I 



(PlERPONT, HaLLECK, BrYANT, DrAKE, Mrs. BroOKS, AND OTHERS) 



Sobn IJierpont 



The Fugitive Slave's Apostrophe to 
the North Star .... 

Warren's Address to the American 
Soldiers 

The Ballot 

The Exile at Rest .... 

The Pilgrim Fathers .... 

My Child . ^ 



33 

34 
34 
34 
35 
35 



iFit^=(25teene |)allecfe 

Marco Bozzaris 36 

On the Death of Joseph Rodman 

Drake 37 

Alnwick Castle 37 

Burns 39 

Red Jacket 40 



^ojiepl^ EnUman ^rafee 

From " The Culprit Fay " 

The Fay's Sentence ... 42 



The First Quest 43 

The Second Quest .... 44 

Elfin Song 45 

The American Flag .... 46 

(Halleck and Drake) 

The National Paintings — Colonel 
Trumbull's " The Declaration of 

Independence " 46 

Joseph Rodman Drake 

The Man who frets at Worldly 

Strife 47 

Joseph Rodman Drake 

Ode to Fortune ..... 47 
Halleck and Drake 

IjUia |)ttntlej> ^tffotimej 

Columbus 47 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



xxxvu 



The Indian's Welcome to the Pil- 
GKiM Fathers 

The Retukn op Napoleon fbom St. 
Helena 

C!)arle6 ^prafftte 

From "Curiosity" 

The News 

Fiction ...... 

The Winged Worshippers 

The Brothers 



3roI)n Beal 



Men of the North 
Music of the Night 



48 



50 

50 
51 
51 



52 
52 



^i'illiam Cullen ^rpant 

Thanatopsis 53 

To a Waterfowl 54 

" Fairest of the Rural Maids " 54 

A Forest Hymn 55 

June 56 

The Death of the Flowers . . 57 

The Past 57 

'•'The Evening Wind . . . .58 

To THE Fringed Gentian . . 59 

The Hunter of the Prairies . . 59 

The Battle-Fibld .... 60 
From " An Evening Revery " . .60 

The Antiquity of Freedom . . 61 

America 62 

The Planting of the Apple-Tree 62 

" The May Sun sheds an Amber Light " 63 

The Conqueror's Grave ... 63 

The Poet 64 

My Autumn Walk .... 65 
The Death of Slavery . . .66 

In Memory of John Lothrop Motley 67 

The Flood op Years ... 67 



^Tamcs (Satts |)ercibal 



Elegiac . 

The Coral Grove 

New England 



70 
70 

70 



[Haria (^otocn ^rooltfi 

("Mabia del OccmBNTE") 



From " Zophiel " 

Palace of the Gnomes 

The Respite . 
Song op Egla 
Farewell to Cuba . 



71 
72 
73 
73 



William Stttpsttts fSlnW^^tx^ 



i would not live alway 
Heaven's Magnificence . 



74 
75 



3fo|)n (^arUiner CalMns ^rainarti 

Mr. Merry's Lament for "Long 

Tom" 75 

The Deep 75 

Epithalamium 76 

0corg;e 5^a6l)in5tan T>unz 

Evening 76 

Robin Redbreast 76 

William ^ottme ©liber |peaiio5p 

Lament op Anastasius ... 76 

9(^mo£i ^roTiBion 9tIcott 

Channing 77 

Emerson 77 

Margaret Fuller . . . .78 

Thoreau 78 

Hawthorne . , . . , .78 

Bartol 78 

Wendell Phillips . . . .79 

Garrison 79 

The Eclipse op Faith . . . .79 

'Mitxt (Norton (Greene 

The Baron's Last BAifQUET . . 80 

©Btoara Coate |)infenej> 

A Health 81 

Song 81 

A Serenade 82 

Votive Song 82 

(Stavst |Jope iflnrtis 

Woodman, spare that Tree ! . .82 
We were Boys together . . 82 

Near the Lake 83 

My Mother's Bible .... 83 
Where Hudson's Wave . . .83 
Jeannie Marsh 84 

0tax^t T>tnmn prentice 

Memories . . ' . , . .84 
New England 84 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



auuitional Selections 

(VAEIOUS POEMS BELONGING TO THIS DIVISION) 

Home, Sweet Home ! . . . .85 
John Howard Patne 

Exhortation to Prayer ... 85 
Makgaret Mekcer 

Forgiveness op Sins a Joy unknown 
TO Angels 86 

Augustus Lucas Hillhouse 

The Crossed Swords ... 86 
Nathaniel Langdon Feothingham 

Laee Superior 87 

Samuel Geiswold Goodrich 



The Hour op Peaceful Kest . 
William Bingham Tappan 

Song op the Elfin Steersman . 
George Hill 

The Daughter op Mendoza . 

MiEABEAu Bonaparte Lamae 

The Green Isle of Lovers 

Robert Charles Sands 

" The Lonely Bugle grieves " 
Grenyille Mellen 

The World I am passing through 
Lydla Marla Child 



Evening Hymn .... 

WlLLUM HEMEY FuENESS 



DIVISION II 



(Emerson, Longfellow, Whittier, Poe, Holmes, and Others) 



EalpI) ^alUo emerson 

Each and All 90 

The Problem 91 

The Khodora 92 

The Humble-Bbe .... 92 

The Snow-Storm 93 

93 

93 

94 

94 

94 



Forerunners .... 

Brahma 

Forbearance .... 
Character .... 

Merlin 

From " Woodnotes " 

" The Heart of all the Scene " 

" The Undersong " . 

" The Mighty Heart " 

Days 

The Earth .... 

Waves 

Terminus .... 

Threnody 

Concord Hymn 

Ode 

The Test .... 



95 

95 

96 

96 

97 

97 

97 

97 

100 

100 

101 



l»aral) |)elen WUtvcim 

Sonnets (from the series relating to Edgar 
AUan Poe) 101 



William llopti (SdLvxmn 



Liberty for All . 
Freedom for the Mind 



jaatbaniel |)ariker Willis 



Parrhasius 
Unseen Spirits 
The Torn Hat 
To GiuLiA Grisi 



William (Bilmavt Simma 



The Swamp Fox . 
The Lost Pleiad 
The Decay of a People 
Song in March . 



Kalp5 |)opt 



Old 



Charles iFenna Hoffman 

Sparkling and Bright 

Monterey 

The Mint Julep 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



x^li 



Hymn to the Night . . . .111 
A Psalm of Life . . . .112 
The Skeleton ik Abmor . . . 112 
The Village Blacksmith . . 114 

Endymion 114 

Serenade from "The Spanish Stu- 
dent " 115 

The Arrow and the Song . . . 115 

Dante 115 

Curfew 116 

From " Evangeline " 

Evangeline in Aeadie . . . 116 
On the Atchafalaya . . . .117 
The Finding of Gabriel . . .118 
From " The Building of the Ship " 

The Republic 119 

From "The Song of Hiawatha" 

The Death of Minnehaha . . 119 
The Warden of the Cinque Ports . 120 

My Lost Youth 121 

The Children's Hour .... 122 
The Cumberland .... 123 
The Bells of Lynn .... 123 

Chaucer 124 

Milton 124 

Nature 124 

Wapentake — To Alfred Tennyson . 124 
A Ballad of the French Fleet . 125 

Jugurtha 125 

The Tide rises, the Tide falls . 125 
My Books 126 



eii^abetl) ©afees ^mitl) 



From " The Sinless Child " 
The Drowned Mariner 



126 
127 



3roI)tt (BxttxikKl WUttitv 

Proem . . . . . . . 128 

The Farewell 128 

ICHABOD 129 

ASTR-EA 130 

The Barefoot Boy .... 130 

Maud Muller 131 

Skipper Ieeson's Ride . . . 183 
The Swan Song of Parson Avery . 134 

The Vanishers 135 

The Eternal Goodness . . . 135 
From " Snow-Bound " 

The World Transformed . . 137 

Firelight 137 

Mother 137 

Sister ....... 138 

Prophetess . . . . .138 

In School-Days 139 

The Two Angels .... 139 

Centennial Hymn 140 

In the "Old South" . . . 140 



MULFOBD 141 

An Autograph . . . . . 141 



William ^atiis (0aUa3;I)er 

The Cardinal Bird .... 142 

Autumn in the West . . . 143 



etig;ar ^Uan |)oe 

To Helen 144 

The Raven 144 

The Sleeper 146 

Lenore 147 

To One in Paradise .... 147 
The City in the Sea . . . 147 

.''IsRAFEL 148 

The Haunted Palace . . . 149 
The Conqueror Worm. . . . 149 

The Bells 150 

Annabel Lee 151 

Ulalume 151 



^amttel jFraruifi ^mttf) 



America 



Faith 



Eap |)almcr 



153 



153 



©liber ^entiell palmt^ 

Old Ironsides 153 

The Last Leaf 154 

The Height op the Ridiculous . . 154 

La Grisettb (" 155 

On Lending a Punch-Bowl . . 155 
After a Lecture on Keats . . 15(5 

The Voiceless 157 

The Living Temple .... 157 
The Chambered Nautilus . . .158 

Bill and Job 158 

Under the Violets .... 159 

Hymn of Trust 159 

Epilogue to the Breakfast-Table 

Series 159 

Dorothy Q 160 

Cacobthes Scribendi .... 161 
The Strong Heroic Line . . 161 
From " The Iron Gate "... 162 



jFrancefi Slnne ^tmhlt 

Lament of a Mocking-Bird . 

aikrt pifee 

To the Mocking-Bird . 

The Widowed Heart 

Dixie 



163 



163 
164 
165 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



CI)eoti0re parfeet 



The Higher Good 

Jesus 



atli^Khtii) Clementine Einnep 

To THE Boy who goes Singing 
The Quakeress Bride . . . . 
The Blind Psalmist .... 

A Dream 

Moonlight in Italy .... 



166 
166 



167 
167 
168 
168 
169 



jFrances ^arg:ent ©SffDoU 

To Sleep 169 

A Dancing Girl 169 

On Sivori's Violin .... 170 

Calumny 170 

Song 170 

On a Dead Poet .... 170 

aifreU ^illinfffii i)treet 

The Settler 171 

The Loon 171 



C!)ri6topI)er JJearee Cranel) 



The Bobolinks 

Stanza from an early Poem , 

The Pines and the Sea 



172 

173 
173 



Sfones ©erp 



The Idler 173 

The New World 174 

The Old Road 174 

Yourself 174 

The Dead 174 

The Gifts of God ..... 175 



|)enrp -JSecfe piv6t 

The Fringilla Melodia . 

The Funeral of Time .... 

©pes ^arjent 

A Life on the Ocean Wave . 

The Heart's Summer . . . , 

Eoftert Craill ^pence lotoell 

The Brave Old Ship, the Orient . 
The After-Comers . . . , 

|)enrp Peterson 

From an " Ode for Decoration Day " 180 
Rinaldo 181 



175 
176 



177 
177 



178 
180 



^fames Elmmnii jFtelUfi 



With Wordsworth at Rydal 
Common Sense . . . . 



181 
182 



^enrp £)abiB Cfioreatt 



Inspiration 182 

The Fisher's Boy .... 182 

Smoke 183 

Mist 183 



emilp C|)ttibttcfe SfttUson 



Watching 
My Bird 



183 

184 



lONA- 



artl)ttr ClebelanU Cope 

•A Memorial of St. Columba 184 



Willinm Cllerp C|)anntnfl; 



From " A Poet's Hope " . . . 
Hymn of the Earth. 
The Barren Moors . . . . 
Tears in Spring — Lament for Tho- 

BEAU 

Edith 



185 
186 
186 

187 
187 



iHarp Cli^aiietl) (|)etottt) ^tebbins 



The Sunflower to the Sun 
Harold the Valiant . 



188 
. 188 



^HHttional Selections 

(VAKIOnS POEMS BELONOING TO THIS DIVISION) 



Requiem 189 

Geoege Lunt 

New England's Dead . . . 190 
Isaac McLellan 

Washington's Statue .... 190 
Henet Theodoee Tuckeeman 



The Star of Calvary . . 191 

Nathaniel Hawthoene 

The Clouds 192 

"William Ceoswell 

A World Beyond .... 192 

Nathaniel Ingeesoll Bowditch 



TABLE OF 



It is not Death to die 


. 192 


George Washinoton Bbthtjnb 




Paraphrase op Lttther's Hymn 


192 


Fredbkic Henry Hedge 




Dies Ir^ . . . . . 


. 193 


Abraham Coles 




Milton's Prayer op Patience 


193 


Elizabeth Lloyd Howell 




The Angels' Song. 


. 194 


Edmund Hamilton Sears 




The Other World . 


194 



Harriet Elizabeth Beecheb Stotvb 

m 

Love Unchangeable .... 195 
BuPTJs Dawes 

Love Unsought 195 

Emma Catharine Embury 

Comb Back 196 

Henry William Herbert 

Song 196 

Frederick William Thomas 

rv 

A Kemembrance 197 

Willis Gaylord Clarke 



CONTENTS xli 

A Death-Bed . . . . . 197 

James Aldrich 

Dirge 197 

Charles Gamaoe Eastman 

Florence Vane 197 

Philip Pendleton Cooke 

The Wipe 193 

Anna Pbyre Dinnies 

Blind Louise 198 

George Washington Dewey 

Under the Violets .... 198 

Edward Young 

The Voice op the Grass. . . 199 
Sarah Roberts Boyle 

V 

A Winter Wish 199 

Robert Hinckley Mbssinger 

A Proem 200 

Samuel Ward 

Horace 200 

John Osborne Sargent 

Chez Brebant 201 

Francis Alexander Durivagb 

The Poet 201 

Cornelius Mathews 



DIVISION III 

(Lowell, Story, Whitman, Mrs. Howe, Parsons, Boker, Brownell, Read, the 
Stoddards, Taylor, Mrs. Dorr, Mrs. Cooke, Mrs. Preston, and Others) 



panics JSttfisell lotoell 

From " Rhcecus " .... 202 
A Stanza on Freedom .... 203 

Hebf. 204 

She came and went .... 204 
From " The Vision op Sir Launpal " 204 
From "A Fable for Critics" 

To his Countrymen .... 205 
On Himself 205 



From " The Big low Papers " 

What Mr. Robinson thinks . . 205 

The Candidate's Letter . . .206 

The Courtin' 207 

Mr. Hosea Biglow to the Editor of 
" The Atlantic Monthly " . . 209 

Ode Recited at the Harvard Com- 
memoration — July 21, 1865 . . 209 

The First Snow-Fall . . . 215 

International Copyright , . . 215 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



In a Copt of Omab KhaytAm . 215 

auf wiedeksehbn summbr . . 216 

Palinode — Autumn .... 216 
After the Burial .... 216 
In the Twilight . . . .217 
An Autograph 218 

William Wttmavt i)t0rp 

Cleopatra 218 

lo ViCTis 219 

Praxiteles and Phryne . . . 220 



STttlia 5^arU |)otoe 

aitle-Hymn op the Republic . . 220 
Our Orders 221 

Wtdt ^^itman 

Beginners 221 

Still though the one I sing . . 221 
From " The Song of Myself " 

Myself 221 

Leaves of Grass .... 222 

Heroes 223 

Infinity 224 

Give me the Splendid Silent Sun . 225 

Mannahatta 226 

■From " Crossing Brooklyn Ferry " . 226 
Out of the Cradle endlessly rock- 
ing 227 

To the Man-of-War-Bird . . . 230 
The Dalliance of the Eagles . 230 
Cavalry crossing a Ford . . . 231 
Bivouac on a Mountain Side . . 231 
A Sight in Camp in the Daybreak 

Gray and Dim 231 

O Captain ! My Captain ! . .231 
After an Interval .... 232 
Darest thou now, Soul . . 232 



Songs 

The Old Mm 232 

Ben Bolt 233 

STofiiia]^ (Gilbert ^oUanti 

Daniel Gray 233 

Babyhood 234 

A Christmas Carol .... 235 

l^crman f^tMllt 

The College Colonel . . . 235 

The Eagle of the Blub . . . 236 
Memorials 

On the Slain at Chiekamauga . 236 



An Uninseribed Monument on one of 
the Battle-Fields of the Wilderness 236 
Crossing the Tropics .... 236 
The Enviable Isles .... 237 

C|)oma6 l^illiam IJarsons 



On a Bust of Dante . 


. 237 


Dirge 


. 238 


Mary Booth 


. 238 


Her Epitaph .... 


. 238 


To a Young Girl dying 


. 239 


Into the Noiseless Country . 


. 239 


Andrew 


. 239 


Obituary 


. 240 


To a Lady 


. 240 


"Like as the Lark" 


. 241 


YE Sweet Heavens! 


. 241 


Paradisi Gloria 


. 241 



William Wil^tvidxtt lor» 

From Worship ..... 242 
From " An Ode to England " 

Keats 243 

Wordsworth 243 

The Brook 243 

On the Defeat of a Great Man . 244 
To EosiNA Pico 244 



From " The River-Fight " 

The Burial of the Dane . 

The Sphinx 


245 
. 247 

247 


Ci)eoUore ©'|)ara 




The Bivouac of the Dead . 


. 248 


iflaria WUtt lotocU 




Song . . . . . 

The Morning-Glory . . . 


249 
. 250 


djomasi ^ttc^anan Kealr 




The Closing Scene . . ... 

Lines to a Blind Girl 

Drifting 


250 

. 252 

252 


iFranxtg ©rrcrj> STicfenor 




A Song for the Asking 

The Virginians op the Valley 

Little Giffbn .... 


. 253 

253 

. 254 


i)amtiel ^a^nean 




The City of God .... 
Inspiration 


254 
.254 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



xliii 



erastuB Waltm eustoorti) 

From " What is the Use ? " . 
The JVLAYFiiOWEB, .... 



eiiiabetli i)to51iart 

The Poet's Secbet . 
novembek .... 
Unreturning .... 
In the Still, Star-Lit Night 

Mercedes 

On the Campagna 

A Summer Night 

Last Days .... 



255 
256 



257 
257 
258 
258 
259 
259 
259 
259 



d)omaB; ilalte |)atTts 

California 260 

Fledglings 260 

Sea-Sleep 261 

(Stav^z |)enrp bolter 

A Ballad of Sir John Franklin . 261 

The Ferry 263 

To England 263 

To My Lady 263 

Dirge for a Soldier . .' . . 264 

Music in Camp 264 

AsHBY 265 

STames ;iIHattIjeta Icffatrc 

Amy 266 

Ahab Mohammed 266 

To A Lily 267 

Ode to a Butterfly . . . . 267 

To Doty 268 

" The Snowing of the Pines " . . 268 

Decoration 268 

" Since Cleopatra died "... 269 
" Such Stuff as Dreams are made 
OF" 269 

Ctarles (BMvtf lelanU 



El Capitan-General 
Thb Two Friends 



269 
270 



^aparU Caplor 



Ariel in the Cloven Pine . . . 271 

Song 272 

Bedouin Song 272 



America — From the National Ode, July 

4, 1876 272 

The Quaker Widow .... 273 
The Song of the Camp . . . 274 
From "The Sunshine of the Gods" 275 
To M. T. . 275 

SttUa Caroline Eijplep T>avv 

The Fallow Field .... 275 
Earth ! art thou not weary ? . 276 
With a Rose from Conway Castle 276 
Two Paths 277 

STo^n ^^iUtatnsnn |)almer 

Stonewall Jackson's Way . . 277 
The Fight at the San Jacinto . . 277 
The Maryland Battalion . . 278 

EicfjarU |)ent:p ^toUUatlr 

The Witch's Whelp . . . .279 
Melodies and Catches 

Songs 280 

The Sea 280 

Birds 280 

The Sky 281 

The Shadow 281 

A Catch 281 

The Flight of Youth . . . 281 
Oriental Songs 

The Divan 281 

Wine and Dew .... 281 

The Jar 282 

The Falcon 282 

Arab Song 282 

The Lover (Japan) .... 282 
Abraham Lincoln ..... 282 

Adsum 285 

An Old Song Reversed . . . 285 

Mors et Vita 285 

A Gazelle 286 

The Flight op the Arrow . . 286 

;Plara:aret Sfunfeitt |)refi!ton 

The Vision of the Snow . . . 286 
The Hero of the Commune . . 286 
A Grave in Hollywood Cemetery, 
Richmond (J. R. T.) . . . .287 

i)tepi)en Collins iFostcr 

My Old Kentucky Home, Good-Night 288 
Old Folks at Home .... 288 
Massa 's in de Cold Ground . . 289 

EoEie Cerrp Coolie 

Segovia and Madrid . . . 289 
Arachne ....... 289 



xHv TABLE OF 

Bluebeakd's Closet .... 290 

LisE 290 

Done for 291 

In Vain 291 

iFrancis jHUefi ifinclb 

The Blue and the Gray . . 292 

The Vagabonds 292 

Midwinter 294 

Midsummer 294 

^feremial^ Camcs Eanliin 

The Word of God to Letden came 295 
The Babie 296 

(various poems belonging to this division) 

I 

Twilight at Sea 296 

Amelia Coppuck ■Welby 

Why thus longing ? . . . . 296 

Haeeiet WmsLow Sew all 

Balder's Wife 297 

Alice Caby 

Nearer Home 297 

Phoebe Gary 

The Master's Invitation . . . 297 
Anson Da vies Fitz Randolph 

To a Young Child .... 298 
Eliza Scuddeb 

The Pilgrim 298 

Sarah Hammond Palfrey 

A Strip op Blue .... 299 
Lucy Labcou 



CONTENTS 



'Tis BUT A Little Faded Flower 
Ellen Clementine Howaeth 



300 



Olivia 


. 300 


Edward Pollock 




Under the Snow . . . . 


. 301 


BOBERT COLLYEE 





Tacking Ship off Shore . 

Walter Mitchell 

Antony to Cleopatra . 

William Haines Lytle 

The Second Mate 

Fitz-James O'Beibn 



To AN Autumn Leaf 

Albert Mathews 

Ebb and Flow .... 
George William Curtis 

Thalatta ! Thalatta ! 

Joseph Brownlee Brown 

Incognita of Raphael 

William Allen Butler 

On One who died in May . 

Clarence Chatham Cook 



But once 



Theodore Winthrop 



Alma Mater's Eoll 

Edward Everett Hale 



BOOKRA 



Charles Dudley Wabneb 



302 
303 
303 

305 
305 
305 
306 
306 
307 

307 

308 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



xlv 



III. SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD 

(in three divisions) 
DIVISION I 

(Mitchell, Timrod, Hayn.e, Mrs. Jackson, Miss Dickinson, Stedman, the Piatts, 
Mrs. Spofford, Mrs. Moulton, Winter, Aldrich, Howells, Hay, Harte, Sill, 
Miller, Lanier, and Others) 



On a Boy's First Reading of " King 

Henry V " 311 

To A Magnolia Flower in the Gar- 
den of the Armenian Convent at 

Venice 311 

Of one who seemed to have failed 312 
The Quaker Graveyard . . . 313 

Idleness 313 

A Decanter of Madeira, aged 86, 
TO George Bancroft, aged 86, 
Greeting 313 



^enrp Ctmrolr 



The Cotton Boll .... 314 

Quatorzain 316 

Charleston 316 

At Magnolia Cemetery . . . 317 

|)attl Hamilton ^apne 

Aspects of the Pines . . . 317 

ViCKSBURG 317 

Between the Sunken Sun and the 

New Moon 318 

A Storm in the Distance . . . 318 
The Rose and Thorn . . . 319 
A little while I fain would linger 

YET 319 

In Harbor 319 

©mil? ^icfein60tt 

Life 

Life .320 

A Book 320 

Utterance , 320 

With Flowers 320 

Parting 320 

CaUedBack 320 

Love 

Choice 321 

Constant 321 

Heart, we will forget him . . . 321 

Nature 

The Waking Year .... 321 



Autumn 321 



Beclouded 
Fringed Gentian 
Time and Eternity 
Too Late 
Chartless . 
The Battle-Field . 
Vanished . 
That such have died 
The Secret . 
Eternity . 



Will Wnllntt ^amep 



Adonais ■ . 
The Stab 



321 
321 

322 
322 
322 
322 
322 
322 
322 



323 
323 



ptUn jFislic ^acikfion 

("H. H.") 

Coronation 324 

Morn 324 

Emigravtt . . . . ■ . . 324 

Poppies in the Wheat . . . 325 

A Last Prayer . . . , . 325 

Habeas Corpus 325 



jFranitlitt ^eniamin Sanborn 



Samuel Hoar. 
Ariana . 



SToel Benton 



At Chappaqua 

The Scarlet Tanager 



eii^abetl) mtv6 mm 

(" Floeencb Peect ") 



Sea-Birds 
" My Dearling " . 
The Last Landlord 
In a Garret . 
Rock me to sleep 



326 
326 



326 

326 



327 

327 
327 
328 
329 



xlvi 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



Sonnets 

The Dead Singer . . . .329 

Virtuosa 330 

At Set of Sun 380 

Down the Bayou .... 330 

Reserve 330 

Her Horoscope .... 330 

Embryo 331 

A Gbokgia Volctntbek . . ,331 

Music and Memory .... 332 
A Soldier's Grave .... 332 

Landor . 332 

Bos'n Hill 332 

Dandelions 333 



©UmtinB Clarence •^teUman 



Song from a Drama . 
The Discoverer . 
Pan in Wall Street 
Kearny at Seven Pines 
The Hand of Lincoln 
Salem (a. d. 1692) . 
Falstaff's Song 
The World well Lost 
Helen Keller . 
Morgan . . . . 
On a Great Man whose 



333 
. 333 

334 
. 335 

335 
. 336 

336 
. 337 

337 
. 338 



Mind is 



clouding . 
Si Jbunesse savait ! 

Mors Benefica 

Quest — From " Corda Concordia " 
Invocation 

Craej> Eobinson 

Song of the Palm 

Cbarleg ^enrp Wtlh 

With a Nantucket Shell 

March 

Gil, the Toreador .... 
DuM ViviMus Vigilemus 

Eic|)arU Eealf 



Indirection . 

The Word 

An Old Man's Idyl 



^eorffe ^moia 



Farewell to Summer 
Beer 



338 
338 
338 
339 
339 



340 



341 
342 
342 
342 



343 
343 
343 



344 
345 



iFrancefi iotttga ^tt£i|)nell 

World Music 345 

Un FULFILMENT 346 

In the Dark 346 



SlttTiie JFielUs 

On Waking from a Dreamless Sleep 346 

Theocritus .■ 347 

Little Guinever .... 347 

The Return 347 

" Song, to the Gods, is Sweetest 
Sacrifice " 348 

|)arrtet illcetoen ^imbaU 

The Guest 348 

All's Well 348 

White Azaleas 349 



fo|)n STameB ^iatt 



The Mower in Ohio . 
Rose and Root 
To Abraham Lincoln 
Farther .... 
The Child in the Street 
To A Lady 
The Guerdon 
Torch-Light in Autumn 
Ireland .... 
Leaves at my Window 
The Lost Genius 
Purpose .... 



|)atriet fJrescDtt ^poffarU 



Phantoms all 

Evanescence . 

Music in the Night 

A Sigh 

The Pines . 

Voice 

The Hunt . 



Lotttfiie ClfianUIer iilottlton 



TO-NlGHT ... 

A Painted Fan . 

The Shadow Dance 

Laus Veneris 

Laura Sleeping 

Hic Jacet .... 

The Last Good-by 

Were but my Spirit loosed 

Air 

We lay us down to Sleep 

Louisa May Alcott — In Memoriam 

Love's Resurrection Day 



upon the 



349 
350 
350 
350 
351 
351 
351 
351 
351 
351 
352 
353 



353 
354 
354 
354 
354 
355 
355 



355 

356 
356 
356 
356 
357 
357 

357 
357 
358 
358 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



xlvii 



Willmvx pKvts W^VH 

To John Grbenleaf Whittier — On 

THE Death of Lowell . . , 358 
The New Cast alia .... 358 

My New World . . . . . 359 
At Shakespeare's Grave. . . 359 
Man's Pillow 360 

IttciuB ^arto0oi( iFoote 

Poetry 360 

On the Heights 360 

Don Juan 361 

El Vaquero 361 

The Derelict 361 



E^tQ'aaxt Ctltott 

God save the Nation . 
CoEUR DB Lion to Berengaria 
The Flight prom the Convent . 
Sib Marmadxjke's Musings 

A Chrysalis 

In Death 

Beyond Eecall .... 
A Spray op Honeysuckle 



361 

362 
362 
363 



363 
363 
364 

364 



The Beautiful 

The Dead Solomon . 



. 364 
. 364 



iFrancefii lattff|)ton fUditt 

Alcyone 365 



William ^enrp tenable 



The School Girl 
My Catbird , 



. 366 



^nna CallcnUer iSracfeett 

Sonnets 

In Hades 367 

Benedicite 367 



C|)arle6 iFteUeticfe ^(i\\Mm 



The Modern Romans 
Then and Now 



. 368 
. 368 



Celia eD|)aj:tcr 



Seaward 

The Sandpiper 

Song 

May Morning 



William Winttx 



My Queen 

Asleep 

The Night Watch 

On the Verge .... 

Adelaide Neilson 

Arthur 

The Passing Bell at Stratford 
L H. B 



Unwritten Poems 



g>ata]^ Morgan ^rpan |Jiatt 



After Wings .... 

My Babes in the Wood . 

The Witch in the Glass 

Tradition of Conquest . 

The Watch op a Swan 

In Clonmel Parish Churchyard 

A Call on Sir Walter Raleigh 

An Irish Wild-Flower . 

Transfigured .... 

The Term op Death 

Envoy 



369 
369 
370 
370 



371 
371 
371 
371 

372 
372 
373 
373 
374 



374 
374 
375 
375 

375 
376 
376 
377 
377 
377 
377 



batata (5rap 



On Lebanon 377 

Divided 378 

The Cross of Gold .... 378 

d)0ma6 -^Satlep '^Vavit^ 

Appreciation 379 

To Hafiz 379 

When the Sultan goes to Ispahan . 379 
Palabkas Carinosas . . . . 380 

Heredity 380 

Identity 380 

Unguarded Gates 380 

Guilielmus Rex 381 

Sargent's Portrait of Edwin Booth 
AT " The Players " . . . .381 

Tennyson ,381 

A Shadow of the Night . . . 381 
Sonnets 

Enamoured Architect of Airy Rhyme 382 
Reminiscence ..... 382 

Outward Bound 382 

Andromeda 383 

The Undiscovered Country . . 383 
Sleep 383 



xlviii 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



Pbescibncb 383 

Memoky 384 

Thalia 384 

Quatrains 

Masks 384 

Memories . • . . _ . . 384 
Circumstance .... 384 

On Reading . . . .384 

Quits . . . . . .385 

An Ode — On the Unveiling of the 
Shaw Memorial on Boston Common 385 

A Petition 385 

William ^ean |)atoeUs 

In Earliest Spring .... 386 
The Two Wives .... 386 

From Generation to Generation . 386 

Change 386 

If 387 

Hope . . . . . . .387 

Vision 387 

Judgment Day 387 

What shall it profit ? . . . 387 

The Old Sergeant • . . . . 388 
From " In State " 389 

William Eeeti ^ttntinffton 

Tellus 390 

Authority 390 

Jflarffaret ©li^abct^ ^auffSter 

Whittier 391 

Awakening 391 

|)enrp 9Lme6 ^looU 

Comrades 391 

Shakespeare 391 

iflarp f^n^ts £)nliffe 

The Two Mysteries .... 392 

Once Before 393 

The Stars 393 

Emerson 393 

Shadow-Evidence .... 394 



William mil WxisU 

From "The Brook" . 

3rof)tt ^ap 

Liberty 

The Surrender of Spain . 



394 



395 
396 



Christine 396 

Pike County Ballads 

Jim Bludso of the Prairie Belle . 396 i 

Little Breeches . . . . 397 i 

The Stirrup-Cup 398 

©Una £)ean ^Jroctor 

From " The Song of the Ancient 
People " . . . . . .398 

Heaven, Lord, I cannot lose . 399 

CI)arIotte ifisfee ^ates 

(Madame Roge) 

A Character 399 

The Clue 400 

Delay 400 

Woodbines in October. . . . 400 
The Living Book .... 400 

^mnt& EpUer EanUall 

My Maryland 400 

John Pelham 401 

Why the Robin's Breast was Red . 402 

9l6ram ^Tosep^ Kpan 



The Conquered Banner 
A Child's Wish 



402 
403 



jFraiwifii -JSrct ^arte 

At the Hacienda .... 403 

Chiquita 403 

Grizzly 404 

Crotalus 404 

"Jim" 405 

The Society upon the Stanislaus . 405 
The Aged Stranger. . . . 406 

Madrono 407 

What the Bullet sang . . . 407 

^tepl^en ^cnrp C!)aj>cr 

EuROPA 407 

Poet of Earth 408 

The Waiting Chords .... 408 

Eojfsiter 3roI)n6on 

Evelyn 409 

A Soldier Poet 409 

Slmclia ^alfiiticn Carpenter 

The Ride to Cherokee . . . 410 
Recollection ...... 410 

Old Flemish Lace .... 411 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



xlix 



3rol)n lancaster ^palUtnff 

Believe anb take Heart 

The Starry Host .... 

Silence 

forbpledged 

From " God and the Soul " 

Nature and the Child 

Et Mori Lucrum 

The Void Between . . • • 

At the Ninth Hour . 



411 
411 

412 
412 

412 
412 
413 
413 



|)cnrj> ^cmarU Carpenter 

The Keed 413 

Eohert J&ellep WnU 

Medusa 414 

A Song for Lexington . • . 415 
Man and Nature 415 

f o|)n Wmt C|)atitow{i 

Tee Making op Man . . • 415 
The Golden-Robin's Nest . . . 416 

Recognition 416 

Starlight 416 

The Rise op Man .... 417 

His Mother's Jot 417 

A Wedding-Song .... 417 

^eorffe ^tlfreU Cotonsenli 



Army Correspondent's Last Ride 
In Rama 



417 

418 



eutoarti EotolanU ^ill 

The Fool's Prayer .... 419 
Before Sunijisb in Winter . .419 
The Lover's Song .... 420 
The Coup de Grace .... 420 

Tempted 420 

Force 420 

A Prayer 421 



William (Sovtioxi ^HcCabe 

Christmas Night of '62 . . . 421 

Dreaming in the Trenches . . 422 

EitviH ^tittson C-nan 

A Dream op Flowers .... 422 

The Crystal 423 

Nihil Humani Alienum . . . 423 



iQara |)errp 



Cressid . 
The Love-Knot 
Riding Down 
Who knows ? . 



^fames Herbert piaxat 



Silence .... 
Brook Song .... 
The Wild Geese 
His Statement of the Case 
The Wayside 



Sfoaquin filler 



Columbus . . . , 
At the Grave of Walker 
Westward Ho ! . . . 
Crossing the Plains . 
Vaquero ... 
By the Pacific Ocean 
Twilight at the Heights 
Dead in the Sierras 
Peter Cooper 
To Russia . 
The Voice of the Dove 

JUANITA 



gosepi) ©'Connor 



What WAS my Dream? 
The General's Death 



C!)arle6 (SooUricI^ ^fiitinff 

Blub Hills beneath the Haze . 
The Eagle's Fall .... 
The Way to Heaven . 

CI)arIes CUtoarU CarrpI 

The Song in the Dell . 
Robinson Crusoe .... 



423 
424 

424 
425 



425 

425 
426 
426 
426 



426 
427 
427 
428 
428 
428 
429 
429 
429 
429 
429 
430 



430 
431 



431 
432 
432 



432 
433 



l)iUncp lamer 

Song for " The Jaqubrib " 

Betrayal 433 

The Hound 434 

Night and Day 434 

The Stirrup-Cup 434 

Song of the Chattahoochee . . 434 ' 
The Marshes of Glynn . . . 435 
The Mocking Bird .... 437 
The Harlequin of Dreams . . 437 
A Ballad of Trees and the Master 437 
Sunrise 437 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



;|lap Eilep ^mitl) 

My Uninvited Guest .... 441 
Departure 441 

Donald 442 

Winter Days 442 

In Memory of General Grant . . 442 
Faith's Vista 443 

ambrofic fierce 

The Death of Grant .... 443 

The Bride 443 

Another Way 444 

Montefiore 444 

Presentiment 444 

Creation 444 

T. A. H 444 

CI)arIc£! barren ^toUUarti 

The Eoyal Mummy to Bohemia . 445 

Wind and Wave 445 

Albatross 446 

The Cocoa-Tree 446 

jFvancis jFisIjer ^rotone 

Vanquished 446 

Under the Blue 447 

Santa Barbara 447 

;;Jilarj) atnse T)t ^txt 

("Madeline Bridges") 

The Wind-Swept Wheat 

A Farewell .... 

Faith Trembling . 

The Spinner .... 

When the Most is Said 

Poet and Lark .... 

A Breath ..... 

Friend and Lover . 

God Keep You 



. 447 

448 
. 448 

448 
. 449 

449 
. 449 

449 
. 449 



^UUitional Selections 

(VARIOUS POEMS BELONGING TO THIS DIVISION) 



The Thanksgiving in Boston Harbor 450 
Hezekiah Butterworth 



At Marshfield — From "Webster; 

An Ode " 

William Cleaver Wilkinson 



451 



The Cowboy 452 

John Antrobus 



All Quiet along the Potomac 
Ethel Lynn Beers 

Sambo's Right to be Kilt 

Charles Graham Halpinb 

The Band in the Pines 

John Esten Cooke _ 



The Volunteer .... 
Elbridge Jefferson Cutler 

Stonewall Jackson 

Henry Lynden Flash 



Roll-Call 

Nathaniel Graham Shepherd 



" PiCCIOLA " 



454 
454 
455 
455 
455 
456 
456 



Robert Henry Newell 



Reveille 



Farragut 



Michael O'Connor 



Carmen Bellicosum 

Guy Humphreys McMastbr 



451 



William Tuokey Meredith 

Driving Home the Cows . 

Kate Putnam Osgood 



Negro Spirituals 

In dat great gittin'-up Mornin' . 
Stars begin to fall ... 
Roll, Jordan, Roll 
Swing low, Sweet Chariot 
Bright Sparkles in de Churchyard 



The Pyxidanthera . 

Augusta Cooper Bristol 

Yellow Jessamine 

Constance Penimorb Woolson 

The Petrified Fern. 

Mary Bolles Branch 



457 
457 
458 



459 
459 
459 
459 
460 



460 
460 
461 



TABLE OF 

The Dawning o' the Yeak . . . 461 
Mary Elizabeth Blake 

The Willis 462 

David Law Proudfit 

Two OF A Trade 463 

Samuel Willoughby Dupfield 

V 

Sonnets 

An Open Secret .... 463 
Reconciliation ..... 463 

Caroline Atherton Mason 

Now 463 

Mary Barker Dodge 

A Living Memory 464 

William Augustus Cropput 

Waiting 464 

John BuRROUGHa 

Dead Love 464 

Mary Mathews Adams 

Disarmed 465 

Laura Redden Searing 
(" Howard Glyndon ") 

Post-Meridian 

Afternoon 465 

Evening 465 

Wendell Phillips Garrison 

VI 

Thoreau's Flute 465 

Louisa Mat Alcott 

Opportunity 466 

John James Ingails 

The Condemned . . . . . 466 
Edward Howland 

My Birth 466 

Minot Judson Savage 

The Inevitable 467 

Sarah Enowles Bolton 

Quatrains 

Time ...... 467 

Infallibility 467 



CONTENTS 



Power ... 

Disappointment . 
Compensation .... 
Thomas Stephens Coluee 



Ancient of Days . 

William Croswell Doane 

Little Town of Bethlehem 
Phillips Brooks 



467 
467 
467 



. 468 



In Galilee 



Mary Frances Butts 



Reincarnation 

David Banks Sickbls 

Roll Out, Song .... 
Frank Sewall 

Not Knowing . . . , . 
Mary Gardiner Brainard 

To St. Mary Magdalen 

Benjamin Dionysius Hill 
(Father Edmund, of the Heart of Mary, C. 

vin 
Now I Lay me down to sleep 

Eugene Henry Pullbn 

One Saturday .... 
Annie Douglas Kobinson 
(" Marian Douglas ") 

My Laddie's Hounds. 

Marguerite Elizabeth Eastee 

The Children .... 
Charles Monroe Dickinson 



"The Doves of. Venice" 

Laurence Hutton 

Mother Goose Sonnets 
Jack and JiU 
Simple Simon . 

Harriet S. Morgridge 



. 468 
469 

. 469 

469 

. 470 
P.) 

470 

. 470 

471 
. 471 

, 472 



473 

473 



A Threnody .... 

George Thomas Lanigan 



473 



lii 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



DIVISION II 



(Gilder, O'Reilly, Maurice Thompson, Father Tabb, Emma Lazarus, Mrs. Cor- 
Tissoz, Edith Thomas, Eugene Field, Bates, Markham, Whitcomb Riley, Ina 
CooLBRiTH, R. U. Johnson, and Others) 



Eic|)at:a Watson (Siltitx 



474 

475 



475 

475 

475 



Ode 

The Celestial Passion 

I COUNT MY Time by Times that 

MEET THEE ..... 

Songs 

On THE Life-Mask op Abraham Lin- 
coln 

The Sonnet 476 

Evening in the Tyringham Valley 476 

Sherman 476 

Hast thou heard the Nightingale ? 476 

The Cello 477 

A Child 477 

Ah, be not False 477 

Of one who neither sees nor hears 477 
The Birds of Bethlehem . . 478 

NofiL 478 

The Song of a Heathen . • • 478 

The Heroic Age 478 

After-Song 478 

eutoarH ^illarU Wnt&ou 

Absolution 479 



From " Wendell Phillips " 

At Best 

An Art Master. 

A Savage . . . . 



. 480 

. 480 

. 480 

. 480 

A White Rose 481 

Mayflower 481 



eu^aiietl) §)tttart |)I)eIp£i WaVa 



The Lost Colors 
The Room's Width 
Gloucester Harbor 



481 
482 
482 



iFrancifii |)otoarlj Williams 



Electka 483 

Walt Whitman . . . •. . 483 
Song 483 

fSLunxin Cljompsnn 

The Lion's Cub 483 

An Early Bluebird .... 484 
Written on a Fly-Leaf of Theocritus 485 



A Flight Shot . 
A Creole Slave Song . 
A Prophecy — From 
Grave "... 



Lincoln's 



485 
485 



illarj* Cf)acl^er ]pisfg:in£ion 



Changelings . 
In the Dark 
Ghost-Flowers 
Inheritance 



486 

486 
487 
487 



3roI)tt ^enrp ^antv 

Poe's Cottage at Fordham . . 487 

Remembrance 488 

We walked among the Whispering 

Pines 488 

The Light'ood Fire .... 488 



^aU Canister Cab6 



Evolution 

The Water-Lily 

To Shelley 

The Sisters 

Anonymous 

Clover . 

The Departed 

Indian Summer 

The Druid 

The Child . 

Quatrains 

The Bubble 

Becalmed 

Fame . 



489 

489 
489 



489 
489 
490 
490 
490 

490 
490 
490 



^aralb C|)attncep WotAstf 

("Susan Coolidge") 

Helen 491 

Gulp Stream 491 



(Stxtxntit Mattit 

(" Stuart Sterne ") 
Night after Night . 
My Father's Child 
Soul, wherefore fret Thee ? 

Will Carleton 

Out of the Old House, Nancy 



492 
492 
492 



493 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



liii 



^Tna Coalftrttl) 



When the Grass shall covek me 
The Makiposa Lily 
Fruitionless .... 
Helen Hunt Jackson . 



494 
495 
495 
495 



The Sovereigns 496 

Milton 496 

The Ship 496 

To an Old Venetian Wine-Glass . 496 
Theseus and Ariadne . . , 496 
To the Milkweed .... 497 
To A Maple Seed .... 497 

Sesostris 497 

The Doors , . 497 

The Flight 498 

Fiat Lux 498 

Sfameg ^effrep JSocJje 

The Kearsargb . . . , . 498 

Andromeda 498 

My Comrade 499 

Tee Skeleton at the Feast . . 499 

aiice ^eIling;ton EoIIins 

The Death op Azron .... 499 
Many Things thou hast given me, 

Dear Heart 500 

Vita Benefica 500 



The Blazing Heart 
My Enemy 



501 
501 



W^lttx learneU 

With a Spray oe Apple Blossoms 502 
The Last Keservation . . . 502 
On the Fly-Leaf of Manon Lescaut 502 

In Explanation 503 

To Critics . . . . . .503 

|)enrp Stttsttstin ^tzvs 

Posthumous ...... 503 

On a Miniature 504 

Biftek aux Champignons . . . 504 
Ecce in Deserto .... 505 
The Singer of One Song . . . 505 



Slrtl)tir ^(lerittrne j^arUp 



Duality 

Immortality . 
Iter Supremum 



505 
506 
506 



l^ilUam poung: 

From " Wishmakers' Town " 

The Bells 506 

The Flower-SeUer .... 506 
The Conscience-Keeper . . . 507 

The Pawns 507 

The Bridal Pair 507 

Judith 508 

Philomel to Corydon .... 508 



Will |)enri> Cfjompsott 



The High Tide at Gettysburg 
Come Love or Death . 



C|)arle6 T)t ^ap 



Arcana Sylvarum 
Ulp in Ireland 



The Tsigane's Canzonet . 
A Woman's Execution . 

Thoralf and Synnov 

^fncl CI)anlilec |)arrtfit 

The Plough-Hands' Song . 
My Honey, My Love 



508 
509 



509 
510 



511 
512 



512 



513 
514 



^aH ©awe C|)enep 

The Happiest Heart . . . .515 

The Strong 515 

Every one to his own Way . . 515 

Evening Songs 515 

The Skilful Listener .... 516 

Whither 516 



©, C. aurinffer 



The Flight op the War-Eagle 
The Ballad op Oriskany 
April 



©mma lajantd 



On the Proposal to erect a Monu- 
ment IN England to Lord Byron 
Venus op the Louvre 
The Cranes op Ibycus . . . . 
The- Banner op the Jew 
The Crowing of the Red Cock 
The New Ezekiel . . . . 



516 
517 
518 



518 
519 
519 
519 
520 
520 



liv 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



(BxKtt T>mo litcl)ficI5 



My Letter 

To A Hurt Child 

My Other Me 



lattra ©li^abctl) Eic^arUs 



A Song of Two Angels 
Where Helen sits 
A Valentine 



(Stax^t ^ouffl^ton 



Sandy Hook . 
The Handsel Eing 
The Manor Lord . 



©ttsene jFtelU 

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod . 

Garden and Cradle 

In the Firelight 

Nightfall in Dordrecht . 

The Dinkey-Bird 

Little Boy Blue . 

The Lyttel Boy 

Our Two Opinions 

The Bibliomaniac's Prayer . 

Dibdin's Ghost 

Echoes from the Sabine Farm 

To the Fountain of Bandusia . 

To Leueonoe — I 

To Leueonoe — II . 



521 
521 
521 



iFrancis ^altus ^alttts 

The Andalusian Sereno . . .521 
The Sphinx speaks .... 522 

The Bayadere 522 

Pastel 523 

The Ideal 523 



(" Owen Innsley") 

A Dream of Death — Helena . 

Bondage 

The Burden of Love . 



523 
524 
524 



524 
525 
525 



525 
525 
526 



526 

527 
527 
527 
528 
528 
528 
529 
529 
529 

580 
530 
531 



Eobert ^umei WHmxi 

It is in Winter that we dream of 
Spring ....... 531 

The Dead Player .... 531 

To a Crow .531 

The Sunrise of the Poor . . ' 532 
Such is the Death the Soldier dies 532 
Ballad of the Faded Field . . 532 



3trIo iSates 

America — From the " Torch Bear- 
ers " 533 

In Paradise 533 

The Cyclamen 533 

Conceits 

Kitty's Laugh .... 534 

Kitty's " No " 534 

Like to a Coin 534 

The Watchers 534 

On the Road to Chorrera . . 534 
A Winter Twilight .... 535 

iFlorence ©arle Coatee 

Perdita 535 

Survival 535 

India 535 

Tennyson 536 

Songs 

The World is Mine . . . .536 
To-Morrow 536 

(Stovtit |) arsons lat|)rap 

The Flown Soul .... 536 

South- Wind 537 

The Sunshine of thine Eyes . . 537 

Remembrance 537 

The Voice of the Void . . . 537 
The Child's Wish granted . . 537 

Keenan's Charge .... 538 

Eose |)atotI)onic lat^top 



Give me not Tears 

Dorothy 

A Song before Grief 

The Clock's Song 



539 
539 
540 
540 



Cf)arlcs iFrancts Eicl^atison 

Prayer 540 

After Death 541 

A Conjecture 541 



©Btoin JRarfel^am 



The Man with the Hoe 
My Comrade . 
Poetry .... 
A Look into the Gulp 
The Last Furrow 
The Whirlwind Road . 
Joy op the Morning 



Eic^arU eutotn ^ap 



England . 

To Shakespeare 



541 
542 
542 
542 
542 
542 
543 



543 
543 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



Iv 



Jflauricc Jrancts ©san 



Maurice de Guerin 
He made us Free . 
The Old Violin . 
The Shamrock . 



iQat^an ^aeJiell T)olt 



Russia 

To AN Imperilled Traveller 
A Russian Fantasy 



. 543 
■544 

. 544 
544 



545 
545 
545 



^enrp ban T)fkt 

An Angler's Wish .... 545 

The Veery 546 

RosLiN AND Hawthornden . . 546 
The Lily op Yorrow .... 546 

Tennyson 547 

Four Things 547 



The Fighting Race . 

CI)arIe6 |)enrp |JI;eIp6 

Henry Ward Beecheb 

Rare Moments .... 

Yuma 



547 



548 
549 
549 



Kobert 5anliet:to0oli ^alman 

From " The Voice of Webster " . 549 
As a Bell in a Chime .... 550 
The Wistful Days .... 550 
In Tesla's Laboratory . . . 550 
Browning at Asolo .... 551 
The Blossom op the Soul . . . 551 

Eicl)ara "ktnUll piunkittxick 

At the Shrine 551 

Ghosts 551 

A Bulb 552 

To Miguel de Cervantes Saavadra . 552 

Craben lanffstrotf) ^ttte 

The Hollyhocks .... 552 

Don Quixote 552 

To the MoomFLOWER. . . . 553 

€Utn illacltap ^tttcl^inson €ovtma^ 

Moth-Song 553 

Her Picture 553 



On Kingston Bridge 
So wags the World 
Praise-God Barebones 
Pamela in Town 
April Fantasie 
Quaker Ladies . 
The Bride's Toilette . 
A Cry prom the Shore 
Sea- Way .... 
Harvest 



CI)0ma£i JQelson fjaffe 

Uncle Gabe's White Folks 
ASHCAKB 



Samefii WUttamh Silep 

When she combs Home 
The Old Man and Jim 

A Lipe-Lesson 

The Way the Baby woke 
The Way the Baby slept . 

Bereaved 

Ike Walton's Prayer .... 
On the Death of Little Mahala Ash- 

craft ...... 

Little Okphant Annie 

DwAiNTE — From " The Flying Islands 

OF THE Night" . . . ,. 
Honey dripping from the Comb . 
A Man by the Name of Bolus 

Longfellow 

Love's Prayer 



553 
554 
554 
555 
555 
555 
556 
556 
557 
557 



557 
558 



559 , 

559 L 

5G0 

560 

561 

561 

561 

561 
562 

563 
563 
563 

564 /- 
564 ^ 



louts James ^locfe 

The Garden where there is no 

Winter 564 

Tuberose 565 

Fate ; . .565 

Work 565 

iPlapburp jFIeminfl: 

To Demeter 566 

What though the Green Leaf grow ? 566 
To Sleep 566 

William Cranston labjton 

Song, Youth, and Sorrow . . 567 
My Fatherland 567 

j^atperine ©leanor Contoap 

The Heaviest Cross of all . 567 

Saturninus . . . . ". . 568 



Sfrtoin Eussell 

De Fust Banjo . . . 



568 



Ivi 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



€HvU6 ieonarli fHooxc 

To England 



Fkom the " Book of Day-Debams " 
Soul unto Soul glooms darkling 
Disenchantment .... 
Or ever the Earth was 
Thou livest, Soul ! . . . 
Then shall we see 

euit^ iilatilUa Cljomae 

The Betrayal of the Rose . 
The Tears of the Poplars 
The Quiet Pilgrim . 
Mother England ... 
Breath of Hampstead Heath 
Thefts of the Morning 

Frost 

Quatrains 

The Soul in the Body 

Insomnia .... 

To Imagination . 
A Far Cry to Heaven 
The Mother who died too 
Winter Sleep 
From " The Inverted Torch " 

When in the First Great Hour 

TeUme .... 

If still they live 

WiU it be so ? . 



!>amttel jUtintum H^ttt 



Sassafras . 
A Southern Girl . 
The Captain's Feather 
My Little Girl . 



569 

570 
570 
571 
571 

571 



571 

572 
572 
573 
573 

574 
574 

574 
575 
575 
575 
575 
575 

576 
576 
576 
576 



576 

577 
577 
577 



Slrtl^ttr ^cnttonrtl^ |)amiIton ©aton 



Pray for the Dead . 

The Egyptian Lotus 



578 
578 



StUtiittonal Selections 

(various poems belongino to this division) 

I 

Little Wild Baby .... 579 

Maegabet Thomson Janviee 

(" Margaret Vandegrift ") 



ViVEROLS 579 

David Starr Jordan 

He 'd nothing but his Violin . 580 
Mary Ktle Dallas 



What my Lover said . 

Homer Greens 



Unless 



Ella'Dietz Glynes 



Winter Twilight . 

George Tracy Elliot 



Under the Red Cross 

Chauncey Hickox 

A Child's Question 

Emma Huntington Nason 



. 580 
581 

, 581 

581 

. 582 



The Mystery 582 

Lilian WmTiNO 

Thomas a Kempis 582 

Richard Rogers Bowker ' 



Kblpius's Hymn . 

Arthur Peterson 



m 



Two Argosies 



582 



583 



Wallace Bruce 

In the Old Churchyard at Freder- 
icksburg 583 

Frederick Wadsworth LoRma 



rv 



The Aztec City 

Eugene Fitch Ware 
(" Ironquill ") 



584 



Weeb-Wolp 585 

Julian Hawthorne 



The Golden Age . . . . 

Ernest Francisco Fenollosa 



585 



The Man with the Hoe — A Reply 586 
John Vance Cheney 



VT 

"Gossamer Weft" 

Whenever a Little Child is born 

Agnes Carter Nason 



587 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



Ivii 



Morning 


. 587 


Only One 


588 


Emily Dickinson 




George Cooper 




Snowflakes .... 


. 587 


Lullaby 

JosLAH Gilbert Holland 


5S8 


Mart Mapbs Dodge 






Why it was cold in May . 


. 587 






Heneietta R. Eliot 

Thistle-down .... 

Claka Doty Bates- 


. 587 


vn 

TlVrPKOMPTUS 

Written in the Visitors' Book at the 

Birthplace of Robert Burns . 
The New Arrival .... 


589 
589 


A Little Boy's Vain Regret 


. 588 


George Washington Cable 




Edith Matilda Thomas 








A Mortifying Mistake . 

Anna M. Peatt 


. 588 


Thoughts on the Commandments 
George Augustus Baker 


589 


Early News .... 
Anna M. Peatt 


.588 


An Ameeican Girl . . . . 
Beandee Matthews 


589 


A Million Little Diamonds 


. 588 


To Jessie's Dancing Feet . 


590 


Makt Frances Butts 




William De Lancey Ell w anger 





DIVISION III 



(Woodberry, Bunner, Mrs. Pullen, Miss Reese, H. S. Morris, Miss Cone, Burton, 
Sherman, Garland, Miss Monroe, Miss Guiney, and Others) 



Fkom "Wild Eden" 

When First I saw her 

The Secret .... 

O, Inexpressible as sweet 

The Rose of Stars 

Divine Awe . 

Homeward Bound 

The Child 

O, Struck beneath the Laurel 

So slow to die 

Seaward .... 
From "My Country" 
On a Portrait of Columbus 
America to England 
At Gibraltar 
Love's Rosary . 
Song of Eros, in "Agathon" . 

iFrancis barton (Bnmxatxt 

John Bright . . . 



^enrj> Cupler Gunner 



The Way to Arcady 
She was a Beauty . 



590 
590 
591 
591 
591 
591 
592 
592 
592 
592 
593 
594 
594 
594 
595 
595 



595 



597 



A Pitcher of Mignonette . , . 597 

Deaf 597 

Les Morts vont vitb .... 598 
The Appeal to Harold . . . 598 
On Reading a Poet's First Book . 598 

Feminine 599 

J. B 599 

To A June Breeze .... 599 
The Chaperon 600 



Wilhuv larremote 



Madam Hickory , 
Blossom Time . 



eiisaftet^ (Caija^^a) |)ttllen 



Her Shadow 
Alicia's Bonnet 
Love and Poverty 
Derelict . 
The Sea- Weed . 



IDanicI letois 2)ato6oii 

The Seeker in the Marshes 



600 
600 



601 
601 
602 
602 
603 



. 603 



Iviii 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



letoifi iFranfe Coafect 

The Last Fight 604 

Sleep 606 

His Quest 606 

armifiiteali C^ttrcI)iII 0ot:lion 

Kkee 606 

Roses of Memory .... 607 

eutoarU ^anfarB iilartin 

A Girl of Pompeii .... 608 
A Little Brother of the Rich . 608 
Egotism 608 

It^ettc l^ooUtoortl) Ecese 

Lydia 609 

Anne — Sudbury Meeting-House, 1653 609 

Daffodils 609 

Tears .610 

Immortality 610 

Thomas a Kempis .... 610 
Telling the Bees . . . .611 

In Time of Grief .... 611 

To a Town Poet 611 

Trust 611 

A Holiday 612 

Keats 612 

Reserve 612 

William Hamilton |)apne 

The Southern Snow-Bird . . 612 
To A Cherokee Rose .... 612 
Quatrains 

Moonliglit Song of the Mocking-Bird 613 

Night Mists 613 

An Autumn Breeze .... 613 

Exiles 613 

A Cyclone at Sea . . . . 613 
" Sleep and his Brother Death " 613 
The Yule Log 613 

England 613 

To A Child 614 

A Dead Soldier 614 

At Night 615 

eila WliuUv Wiltaj: 

Recrimination 615 

€Uvh6 iottn |)iltiret|) 

To an Obscure Poet who lives on 
MY Hearth 616 



Implora Pace 

At the Mermaid Inn 



616 
617 



Destiny — A. d. 1899 . . . .617 
The Lonely-Bird .... 619 
A Pine-Tree Buoy . . . .619 
Mohammed and Sbid. . . . 619 

Walt Whitman 620 

Fickle Hope 620 

©mest Crosfaj) 

Choir Practice 620 

The Search 621 

The Soul of the- World . . . 621 

Ipartrp Cfiurgton |)ecfe 

Heliotrope 621 

Wonderland ...... 622 

The Other One 622 

iFranli lefabp Stanton 

One Country 622 

A Plantation Ditty .... 623 
The Graveyard Rabbit . . . 623 
The Mocking-Blrd .... 623 
A Little Way . '. . . . 624 

Jilatffaret ^clanU 

Love and Death .... 624 
Sent with a Rose to a Young Lady 624 

The Clover 624 

Love's Wisdom 624 

CttUor 3fenfe£i 

Small and Early 625 

The Spirit of the Maine . . 625 

Sllite proton 

Candlemas 626 

Trilby 626 

Cloistered 626 

Life 626 

Sleep 627 



5^iIUatn iplorton |)apne 



Incipit Vita Nova 
" Ej Blot Til Lyst " 
Tannhauser 
Lohengkin 



627 
627 
627 
628 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



nx 



Song and Science 

" The Twilight of the Poets " . 628 
When Almonds bloom .... 629 
YosEMiTE — Fkom "The Washington 
Sequoia" 629 

S'amefii benjamin J^enpon 

Tacita 630 

Quatrains 

The Bedouins of the Skies . . .630 
The Two Spirits .... 630 

A Challenge 630 

Death and Night .... 630 
Bring them not back .... 631 
Come slowly, Paradise . . . 631 

Cljarlcs l^enrj* CranUall 

Stella 631 

The Human Plan . . . .631 
With Lilacs 631 

Cljarleg |)enrp luUers 



The Four Winds 

The Haunts of the Halcyon 

Heart of Oak . . . . 

An Old Thought . 

The Mountebanks 



^arp ^Ittsttsta ;Pla6on 

The Scarlet Tanager . 
My Little Neighbor 

Ipcnrp S^crome ^tocfearU 

Over their Graves 

As some Mysterious Wanderer 

THE Skies .... 
The Mocking-Bikd 



632 
632 
632 
632 
633 



633 
633 



OF 



634 

634 
634 



^aral) |)ratt iltclean (?5reene 



The Lamp . 
De Sheepfol' 



634 
635 



Clarence 5armj> 

As I came down Mount Tamalpais 63-5 
Blondel 635 

^tiuan fUKXv g^palUing; 

A Song's Worth 636 

The Sea's Spell .... 636 
Fate 636 



Kobert Triases 




" The Unillumined Verge " . 
James McCosh . . . . 


. 637 
. 637 



William linUsep 

En Garde, Messieurs 

The Hundred- Yard Dash . 

Horace 1. Craubel 

I SERVED IN A GrEAT CaUSE . 

If all the Voices op Men . 
Epicedium 



£)an6fee 2Danliritifl;c 



The Dead Moon . 
The Spirit of the Fall 



William Koscoe CI)aper 



(" Paul Hermes ") 

The Last Hunt 

Man in Nature . 

The Violin's Complaint 



638 



638 
639 
639 



639 
640 



640 
641 
641 



ptUn (3xKV Cone 

The Kide to the Lady . . . 642 

Arraignment 642 

Thisbb 643 

The Contrast 643 

The Last Cup of Canary . . 643 
The Spring Beauties .... 644 
Fair England 644 

KicJ^arU ^ttrtan 

The First Song 645 

On a Ferry Boat .... 645 

Black Sheep . . . ... . 645 

The Forefather .... 646 

"Extras" 646 

Love is Strong 646 

An Unpraised Picture . . . 646 
The Polar Quest .... 647 
In Sleep 647 



Eatfjarine lee ^atea 



Robin's Secret . . . . 

A Song of Riches 

The Little Knight in Green 



(Stav^t pelleto 



On a Cast from an Antique 
Death 



647 

648 
648 



648 
649 



k 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



Eobett iWotorp ^ell 



The Tutelage 

The Second Volume. 



649 
649 



On a Gbeek Vase 650 

To A Rose 650 

On Some Buttercups .... 650 

The Library 650 

Quatrains 

A Quatrain 651 

A Hollyhock 651 

Moonrise 651 

The Rose's Cup 651 

The Shadows 651 

At Midnight 651 



Sol^n ^all Sfuffbam 



George Washington 

Genesis 

A Summer Sanctuary 



652 
652 
652 



parrp Ipmati Eoopman 

Sea and Shore 652 

John Brown 653 

Icarus 653 

The Satirist 653 

Revealed 658 

©scar jFap ^Bamg 

At Lincoln 653 

On a Grave in Christ-Church, Hants 654 



^amlitt Mariana 



Pioneers 


654 


In the Grass 


. 654 


The Meadow Lark .... 


654 


The Massasauga .... 


. 655 


A Tribute op Grasses — To W. W. 


655 


A Wish 


655 


The Gift of Water 


. 655 


The Ute Lover. .... 


655 


Do YOU FEAR THE WiND 


, 656 


The Gol»-Seekers .... 


656 


The Greeting of the Roses 


. 656 



^atrffinia ^oalitoarli ClottU 

The Mother's Song .... 65Y 

An Old Street 657 

Care 657 

Youth 658 



Clinton ^colIarU 

Sidney Godolphin .... 658 
As I came down from Lebanon . 658 

Khamsin 659 

Memnon 659 

Be ye in love with April-Tide ? . 660 
A Bell 660 

Harriet JHonroe 

From the " Commemoration Ode " — 
World's Columbian Exposition, Chi- 
cago 

Washington 660 

Lincoln . . . . . . 660 

Democracy 661 

In the Beginning .... 662 
The Fortunate One .... 662 
The Night-Blooming Cereus . . 662 
A Farewell 662 



CI)arUrtte IJeriins Stetson 

A Common Inference . 

The Beds of Fleub-de-Lys 

A Conservative .... 



663 
668 
663 



kanm ^Tmoffen (Sttinep 

Ode for a Master Mariner ashore 664 

In Leinster 665 

Pax Paganica 665 

On first entering Westminster Ab- 
bey 665 

Martyr's Memorial .... 665 
A Footnote to a Famous Lyric . 666 

The Wild Ride 666 

Valse Jeune 666 

Of Joan's Youth 666 

Sanctuary 667 

lilla Cabot |)errp 

Meeting after Long Absence 

As she feared it would be . . . 667 
As it was ..... 667 

Life and Death 667 

Art . . . . . • .668 

^annal) |)arfeer ffilimball 

Beyond 668 

Soul and Sense 639 

One Way of Trusting .... 669 



Sllfiert ^ijelDto |)aine 



The Little Child 
In Louisiana . 



669 



TABLE OF 

As THE Day breaks .... 669 

" Makk » 670 

A " Rise " 670 

Gbronimo . . . . . . 670 

I FEAB NO Power a Woman wields 670 

i^atrtna Cragfe 

Sorrow 671 

Love 671 

At Last 671 

Aidenn 671 

^tUHttianal Selections 

(VAEIOUS POBMS BELONGING TO THIS DIVISION) 
I 

Birth 672 

Annie R. Stillman 
(" Grace Raymond ") 

The First Step 672 

Andrew Bice Saxton 

To 0. S. C 672 

Annie Eliot TRUMBtiMi 

A Plain Man's Dream .... 672 
Fredeeick KefpeIi' 

A Child of To-Dat .... 673 

James BrrcsHAM 
Vingtaine 

Separation ...... 673 

Immutabilia 673 

AlICB LBABNED BtTNNBB 

When Even cometh on . . . 673 

Lucy Evangeline Tilled 

n 

The Statue of Lorenzo Db' Medici 674 

James Ernest Nesmitb 

Ahmed 674 

Jamss Bssfiir Benssl 



CONTENTS 



Ixi 
674 

675 

675 

676 

670 
676 
677 
677 
677 



Ave ! Nero Imperator 

Duffield Osboene 

A Night in Lesbos . 

George Hoeton 



Bacchylides .... 

George Meason 'Whicheb 

Carlyle and Emerson 

Montgomery ScEnnxEB 



The Town of Hay 

Sam Walter Foss 

A Drop op Ink .... 

Joseph Ernest Whitney 



Sea Iront 



Solitude 



John Langdon Hbaton 



rREDBBICK PETEBSOK 



An Epilogue at Wallack's 

John Elton Waylahd 
("Idas") 



"The Tune of the Time" 

When Love comes knocking . 
WiLLLAM Henry Gardner 

If I but knew 

AUY E. liEIGB 

Song from " B#n Hur " . 
Lew Wallace 



At Twilight 

Peyton Vait RbhsseIiAbb 



Art Thou the Same 

Fkanobs Dore (Swift) Tatnall 

The Song of the Turnkey . 
Harry Bache Smith 

The Armorer's Song . , 
Harry Bache Suiia 



678 
678 
678 

679 
679 



Ixii 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



His Majesty .... 
Thbron Bkown 


. 680 


A Little Dutch Garden 

Hattie Whitney 


. 681 


Little Alabama Coon 


. 680 






Hattie Staeb 

Go Sleep, Ma Honey . 

Edwaed D. Baekee 

1 


. 680 


"A Song that Old was Sung" 
.The Old Sexton 

Paek Benjamin 


. 681 


Kentucky Babe 

BiCHAED Henet Buck 


. 681 


He came too late 

Elizabeth Bogaet 


. 682 



IV. CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



(Typical Poets and Poetry of the Final Years) 



lansUnn eitopn iltitcbell 

(" John Philip Varley ") 

From " To a Writer op the Day " 

Technique 685 

Purpose 685 

Songs 

Fear . _ 686 

Sweets that die 686 

To One being Old .... 687 
The Wayside Virgin .... 687 
Written at the End of a Book . 687 

W^llutt Eice 



Under the Stars . 
The End 
Immortal Flowers 



688 



Eoftert Cameron Eoffers 

The Dancing Faun .... 689 
A Sleeping Priestess of Aphrodite 689 
Virgil's Tomb . . , . . . 690 
The Shadow Rose ? . . . 690 

Doubt 690 

A Health at the Ford . . . 690 
The Rosary 691 



Sance C|)am}JSon 



Symbols 
Linen Bands 



dla ^issinsatt 

Beggars .... 

moonrise in the rockies . 
The Lamp in the West . 
The Grand Rondb Valley. 
Four-Leaf Clover . 



691 
691 



692 
692 
692 
692 
692 



^al)n !^cnUricli ^anp 



To A Withered Rose 
May 30, 1893 
The Little Elf 



693 

693 
693 



(" Ellen Burroughs ") 

"If Spirits walk" .... 693 

Armistice 693 

Song 694 

When Nature hath betrayed the 

Heart that loved her . . . 694 
A Smiling Demon of Notre Dame 694 



©baleen ^tein 

Budding-Time too Brief 
In Mexico .... 
In Youth .... 
Flood-Time on the Marshes 



694 
695 
695 
695 



Ltttp Eobinfion 

(Lucy Catlin Bull) 

The Fire i' the Flint .... 696 
"Hic me, Pater Optime, Fessam Db- 

SERis " 696 

A Ballade of Islands . . . 696 

©liber ^erforU 

Proem 697 

A Belated Violet .... 697 
Why ye Blossome cometh before ye 

Leafe 697 

The Elf and the Dormouse . . 698 
The Mon-Goos 698 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



Ixii'i 



A Mood 698 

Before the Rain .... 699 
A Sonnet 699 

(?5ertnitre ^all 

Mrs. Golightly 699 

Angels ....... 700 

The Dust 700 

My Old Counselor . . . . 700 

©laine (SooUale (Kastman 

A Countrywoman of Mine . . 700 

Ashes op Roses 701 

Baby 701 

forthfaring 701 

The Poet and the Child . . 701 
A Wasted Syjvipathy .... 702 

Past 702 

A Mood 702 



Kic^arU ^oijcp 



702 



703 
703 
704 
705 
705 



The Wander-Lovers 

Envoy — To " More Songs from Vag- 

abondia '' 

The Call of the Bugles 
Unmanifest Destiny 
Love in the Winds . 
Dartmouth Winter-Song 

Laurana's Song 705 

From " The Birth of Galahad " 

Ylen's Song 705 

From " Taliesin : A Masque " . . 706 

^Tttlie ;iIilatI)iKie lippmann 

Love and Life 707 

Stone Walls 707 

The Pines 707 

The Travellers 708 

Distinction 708 

" Whom the Gods love "... 70S 

ilatJiBon Catoein 

Proem 708 

The Rain-Crow 708 

To A Wind-Flower .... 709 

Death .709 

The Soul 710 



The Creek-Road 710 

Ku Klux 710 

Quatrains 

The Wind in the Pines . . .710 

Opportunity 710 

comradery ...... 710 

Flight 711 

Dirge 711 



Sfn^n Bennett 

Songs from " Master Sky-Lark " 

The Sky-Lark's Song 

The Song of the Hunt 
God bless you, Dear, To-Day 
Her Answer 



711 

712 
712 

712 



eBtDarB Ittcas WUtt 

The Last Bowstrings . . . 712 
Genius 714 

^artfia (Siibtvt T)itUix(iaxi 

Reality 714 

A Priest's Prayer .... 714 
Forgiveness Lane . • . . 714 
Separation ...... 715 

Unanswered 715 

Her Music 715 

Heaven 715 



WkUzx iHalone 



October in Tennessee. 
He who ti - " 



715 



Joined the Blues 716 

The Homing 717 

The Men behind the Guns . . 717 
Where Helen comes . . . 718 

The Rahat 718 

A Beam of Light .... 718 



Slnne Eeebe ^llUricIj 



A Song about Singing 
In November 
Music of Hungary 
A Crowned Poet 
Love's Change 
Fraternity . 
Recollection . 
April — and dying . 
A Little Parable 
Death at Daybreak 
The Eternal Justice 



718 
718 
718 
719 
719 
719 
719 
719 
720 
720 
720 



Ixiv 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



Prairie |720 

The Heavens are our Eiddle . . 721 

From "The Old-Fashioned Garden" 721 



£)ora KeaU (Sootiale 

The Flight of the Heart . 

The Soul of Man 

The Judgment ... 



722 
722 
722 



^fosepl) Ettsfiell STajtor 

The Flute 723 

The Veery-Thrush .... 723 



A Song with a Discord . . . 723 
To Faustine 724 



fjljilip l^enrp ^abag:e 



Morning 

SiLKWEED . 

Solitude 
Infinity . 



■33arrett ©astman 



Eichard Somers. 
Joy enough . 



William ©ausJ^n ;Plooaj) 

From " An Ode in Time of Hesita- 
tion " 

Robert Gould Shaw 

"No Hint of Stain" . . . . 



jFreUeric latorence jj^notoles 

Nature : The Artist 

A Pasture 



724 
724 

724 
725 



725 
725 



726 
726 



727 
727 



Luke Havergal 727 

Ballade of Dead Friends . . . 728 

The Clerks 728 

The Pity op the Leaves . . . 728 

The House on the Hill . . . 729 



Caroline T>un 

An International Episode (March 

15, 1889) 729 

A Portrait 780 

A Word to the Wise .... 730 



aiicc T>ntv iililler 



Song 

A Sonnet 



eutDarU St. 5E. Valentine 



Helen 

The Spirit of the Wheat 



^litt auf)er (i)0 ^nmts 



Sinfonia Eroica , 
The Butterfly 
Processional 



^tepl)en Crane 



The Peaks 

'Scaped 

The Black Eiders 

Why? . 

The Wayfarer 

Content 

Ancestry 

The Violets 

i explain 



Herbert ^a6|)forli 



The Arid Lands 
By the Pacific 
Night in Camp . 
Morning in Camp 
Quatrains 

Mount Eainier 
Along Shore 
Sunset 



Ettpert |)ttsl)es 

For Decoration Day . 



|3attl lattrence T>nnhKX 



A Corn-Song 
Harriet Beecher Stowb 
Eetort . . . . 
On the Eoad . 

Hymn 

A Death Song 



730 
731 



731 
731 



732 
732 
733 



733 

733 
734 
734 
734 
734 
734 
734 
734 



735 
735 
735 
735 

736 
736 

736 



736 



737 
737 
737 
738 
738 
738 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



Ixv 



Sunrise in the Hills op Satsuma . 739 

Flting Fish 739 

MiYOKO San 739 

A Drifting Petal .... 739 

YuKi 739 

Morning Fancy 740 

(Bvut ©llerp CI)atminfl:=^tEt6Dn 

England 740 

War 740 

JuDGIffENT 740 

A Song of Arno 741 

(3uf Wttmtivt CarrpI 

When the Great Gray Ships come in 741 
The Sycophantic Fox and the Gul- 
lible Raven 742 

Romance 742 

A Moral in Sevres .... 743 
Down a Woodland Way . . . 743 

(Btax^t Cabot lotip 

A Song of the Wave .... 743 
Youth 744 

^ilBeffartie |)atot]^ome 

A Song 744 

My Rose 744 

S'osepljine JUreston ^eaboBp 

Prelude 745 

Wood-Song 745 

Sonnet in a Garden .... 745 
A Changeling Grateful . . . 745 

Caravans 746 

Rubric 746 

Isolation 746 

After Music ...... 747 

A Fak-Off Rose 747 

^Toeepl^ letser 

KoL NiDRA — From " The Day op 
Atoitement" 747 



j^oiuacU Wtttitn 



The Banjo of the Past 
The Borrowed Child 



748 
749 



The Cattle of his Hand . . . 749 

eunaf) IJractor (Clarfec) |)ape6 

To A Wild Rose found in October 750 

A GooD-BY 751 

The Deathless 751 

The Mocking-Bird .... 751 
The Dancer 751 

iFreUeric EiUpIp Correiue 

From "The House of a Hundred 
Lights " 

The Young Lovers .... 752 

Youth and Age .... 752 

Compensation 752 

Carpe Diem 753 

The Conclusion of the Whole Matter 753 

|)elen ^ap 

To Diane 753 

A Woman's Pride .... 754 

Love's Kiss 754 

Was there Another Spring . . 754 
Does the Pearl know ? . . . 754 
Sigh not for Love .... 754 

(Stov^t ^iUnep |)cUman 

Coleridge 755 

The Hudson 755 

^eatrip ^ortarcst llopu 

Love and Time 755 

With Roses 756 

Night-Wind 756 



SUKitional Selections 

(FKOM the balladry, lyrics, SONlfETS, AND LIGHTER 
VERSE OF THE FINAL DECADE) 



The Flag goes by . . . . 756 

Henry Holcoub Bennett 

The Coasters 756 

Thomas Fleuino Day 



Of the Lost Ship . 

Eugene Richard White 



757 



Ixvi TABLE OF 

Camilla 758 

Chaeles Augustus KeeiiER 

The Song of the Sons of Esau. . 758 
Bebtha Brooks Runklb 

u 

The Unbokn . . . , . 759 
Julia Neelt FmoH 

in 
Deep Waters 759 

Van Tassel Sutphen 

mobitura 760 

Margaret Gilman (George) Davidson 

The Long Night 760 

Harry Bache Smith 

White Roses 761 

Cora Fabbri 

IV 

Stevenson's Birthday .... 761 

Kathebine Miller 

Sonnets 

On the Death of a Metaphysician . 761 
On a Piece of Tapestry . . . 761 

George Santatana 

The Autist 762 

Arthur Grissom 

The Mountain to the Pine . . 762 
Clarence Hawees 

Experience 762 

Edith Wharton 

V 
Intaglios 

Tennessee 763 

On the Plains .... 763 

Francis Bbooss 

Quatrains 

A Diamond 763 

Spring 763 

March 763 

April 763 

■ A Sunset . . . . . .763 

Robert Loyeman 



CONTENTS 

VI 

The Recruit 764 

Robert William Chambers 

The Little Nipper an' 'is Ma . . 764 
George Fauvel Godraud 

VII 

SOME RECENT COLLEGE VERSE 

1 

D'Artagnan's Ride .... 765 

GOUVEENEUR MOEEIS 
2 

To A Moth 765 

Charles Edward Thomas 

Methinks the Measure . . . 766 
Percy Adams Hutchison 

Helios 766 

Joel Elias Spingarn 

Darkness 766 

Jambs Naumberg Rosenberg 

Whither , 166 

Phllip Becker Goetz 

Attainment ..... 767 
Algernon Tassin 

God's Will 767 

Robert Louis Mungee 

3 

Cameos 

A Valentine 767 

Forgiven ...... 767 

Jeannbtte Bliss Gillespy 

The Song 767 

John Eeskine 

4 

Alpheus and Arethusa . . . 767 
Eugene Howell Daly 

On a Magazine Sonnet . . . 768 
Russell Hillard Loines 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



Ixvii 



A Crew Poem .... 


768 


Now IS the Cherry in Blossom 


770 


Edward Augustus Blount, Je. 




Mary Eleanor Wilkins 




In a China Shop .... 


768 


Hey Nonny No . 


771 


CrEORaE Sidney Hsllman 




Marguerite MERmaiON 




CiiAssicAii Criticism 

Georoe Lynde Richardson 


768 


Gold-op-Ophir Roses . 

Grace Atherton Dennen 


. 771 


For Sale, a Horse .... 


768 






Charles Edward Tatlob 




I KNOW NOT why 


772 


Pbrsicos Odi 


769 


Morris Rosenteld 




Charles Eduund MRRRnj., Jr. 




Gentian 


. 772 


VIII 




Elizabeth Green Cranb 




Miss Nancy's Gown . ... 
Zrnw.LA Cocke 


769 


Dryad Song .... 
Margaret Fuller 


. 772 


The Journey 


. 769 






Mary Berri (Chapman) Hansbbough 




Sing again . ... 
Marie Van Vorst 


. 773 


Little Theocritus .... 


770 


The Parting of the Ways 


. 773 


Caroline Wilder (Fellowes) Paradise 




Joseph B. Gilder 





BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. .777 

INDEX OF FIRST LINES ......' 887 

INDEX OF TITLES 855 

INDEX OF POETS 873 



EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION 

(THE QUARTER CENTURY PRECEDING BRYANT AND HIS 
CONTEMPORARIES) 

FRENEAU'S EARLIER COLLECTIONS OF HIS POEMS, 1786-95 
BRYANT'S "THANATOFSIS" IN "NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW": 1S16 



PRELUDE 

I SAW the constellated matin choir 
Then when they sang together in the dawn, — 
The morning stars of this first rounded day 
Hesperian, hundred-houred, that ending leaves 
Youth's fillet still upon the New World's brow; 
Then when they sang together, — sang for joy 
Of mount and wood and cataract, and stretch 
Of keen-aired vasty reaches happy-homed, — 
I heard the stately hymning, saw their light 
Resolve in flame that evil long inwrought 
With what was else the goodliest demain 
Of freedom warded by the ancient sea; 
So sang they, rose they, to meridian, 
And westering down the firmament led on 
Cluster and train of younger celebrants 
That beaconed as they might, by adverse skies 
Shrouded, but stayed not nor discomfited, — 
Of whom how many, and how dear, alas, 
The voices stilled mid-orbit, stars eclipsed 
Long ere the hour of setting; yet in turn 
Others oncoming shine, nor fail to chant 
New anthems, yet not alien, for the time 
Goes not out darkling nor of music mute 
To the next age, — that quickened now awaits 
Their heralding, their more impassioned song. 

E. C. S 



EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION 

(THE QUARTER-CENTURY PRECEDING BRYANT AND HIS CONTEM- 
PORARIES) 



^Ijilip f rciieau 



EUTAW SPRINGS 

At Eutaw Springs the valiant died : 
Their limbs with dust are covered o'er ; 

Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide; 
How many heroes are no more ! 

If in this wreck of ruin they 

Can yet be thought to claim a tear, 

O smite thy gentle breast, and say 
The friends of freedom slumber here ! 

Thou, who shalt trace this bloody plain. 
If goodness rules thy generous breast, 

Sigh for the wasted rural reign ; 

Sigh for the shepherds sunk to rest ! 

Stranger, their humble groves adorn; 

You too may fall, and ask a tear: 
'T is not the beauty of the morn 

That proves the evening shall be clear. 

They saw their injured country's woe. 
The flaming town, the wasted field; 

Then rushed to meet the insulting foe; 
They took the spear — but left the shield. 

Led by thy conquering standards, Greene, 
The Britons they compelled to fly: 

None distant viewed the fatal plain, 
None grieved in such a cause to die — 

But, like the Parthians famed of old, 
Who, flying, still their arrows threw, 

These routed Britons, full as bold, 
Retreated, and retreating slew. 



Now rest in peace our patriot band ; 

Though far from nature's limits thrown, 
We trust they find a happier land, 

A brighter Phcebus of their own. 



EPITAPH, FROM "THE FADING 
ROSE" 



Here — for they could not help but die 
The daughters of the Rose-Bush lie: 
Here rest, interred without a stone. 
What dear Lucinda gave to none, — 
What forward beau, or curious belle, 
Could hardly touch, and rarely smell. 

Dear Rose ! of all the blooming kind 
You had a happier place assigned. 
And nearer grew to all that 's fair, 
And more engaged Lucinda's care, 
Than ever courting, coaxing swain, 
Or ever all who love, shall gain. 



SONG OF THYRSIS 

IN " FEMALE FRAILTY " 

The turtle on yon withered bough. 

That lately mourned her murdered mate, 

Has found another comrade now — 

Such changes all await ! 

Again her drooping plume is drest, 

Again she 's willing to be blest 

And takes her lover to her nest. 



EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION 



If nature has decreed it so 
With all above, and all below, 
Let us like them forget our woe, 

And not be killed with sorrow. 
If I should quit your arms to-night 
And chance to die before 't was light, 
I would advise you — and you might - 

Love again to-morrow. 



THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE 

Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, 

Hid in this silent, dull retreat. 
Untouched thy honied blossoms blow. 
Unseen thy little branches greet: 
No roving foot shall crush thee here, 
No busy hand provoke a tear. 

By Nature's self in white arrayed, 

She bade thee shun the vulgar eye. 
And planted here the guardian shade. 
And sent soft waters murmuring by; 
Thus quietly thy summer goes. 
Thy days declining to repose. 

Smit with those charms, that must decay, 

I grieve to see your future doom; 
They died — nor were those flowers more 
gay, 
The flowers that did in Eden bloom; 
Unpitying frosts and Autumn's power 
Shall leave no vestige of this flower. 

From morning suns and evening dews 

At first thy little being came ; 
If nothing once, you nothing lose, 
For when you die you are the same; 
The space between is but an hour, 
The frail duration of a flower. 



THE INDIAN BURYING-GROUND 

In spite of all the learned have said, 

I still my old opinion keep; 
The posture that we give the dead 

Points out the soul's eternal sleep. 

Not so the ancients of these lands ; — 
The Indian, when from life released. 

Again is seated with his friends, 
And shares again the joyous feast. 



His imaged birds, and painted bowl, 
And venison, for a journey dressed, 

Bespeak the nature of the soul. 
Activity, that wants no rest. 

His bow for action ready bent, 
And arrows with a head of stone. 

Can only mean that life is spent. 
And not the old ideas gone. 

Thou, stranger, that shalt come this 
way, 

No fraud upon the dead commit, — 
Observe the swelling turf, and say, 

They do not lie, but here they sit. 

Here still a lofty rock remains. 

On which the curious eye may trace 

(Now wasted half by wearing rains) 
The fancies of a ruder race. 

Here still an aged elm aspires. 

Beneath whose far projecting shade 

(And which the shepherd still admires) 
The children of the forest played. 

There oft a restless Indian queen 

(Pale Shebah with her braided hair). 

And many a barbarous form is seen 
To chide the man that lingers there. 

By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews, 
In habit for the chase arrayed, 

The hunter still the deer pursues. 
The hunter and the deer — a shade ! 

And long shall timorous Fancy see 
The painted chief, and pointed spear, 

And Reason's self shall bow the knee 
To shadows and delusions here. 



DEATH'S EPITAPH ; 

FROM " THE HOUSE OF NIGHT " 

Death in this tomb his weary bones hath 

laid, 
Sick of dominion o'er the human kind; 
Behold what devastations he hath made, 
Survey the millions by his arm confined. 

" Six thousand years has sovereign sway 

been mine. 
None but myself can real glory claim; 



PHILIP FRENEAU 



Great Regent of the world I reigned alone, 
And princes trembled when my mandate 
came. 

"Vast and unmatched throughout the 

world, my fame 
Takes place of gods, and asks no mortal 

date — 
No : by myself, and by the heavens, I swear 
Not Alexander's name is half so great. 

" Nor swords nor darts my prowess could 
withstand, 

All quit their arms, and bowed to my de- 
cree, — 

Even mighty Julius died beneath my hand, 

For slaves and Csesars were the same to 
me ! " 

Traveller, wouldst thou his noblest trophies 

seek. 
Search in no narrow spot obscure for those; 
The sea profound, the surface of all laud, 
Is moulded with the myriads of his foes. 



THE PARTING GLASS 

The man that joins in life's career 
And hopes to find some comfort here, 
To rise above this earthly mass, — 
The only way 's to drink his glass. 

But still, on this uncertain stage 
Where hopes and fears the soul engage, 
And while, amid the joyous band. 
Unheeded flows the measured sand. 
Forget not as the moments pass 
That time shall bring the parting glass ! 

In spite of all the mirth I 've heard, 
This is the glass I always feared. 
The glass that would the rest destroy, 
The farewell cup, the close of joy. 

With you, whom reason taught to think, 
I could for ages sit and drink; 
But with the fool, the sot, the ass, 
I haste to take the parting glass. 

The luckless wight, that still delays 
His draught of joys to future days. 
Delays too long — for then, alas ! 
Old age steps up, and — breaks the glass ! 



The nymph who boasts no borrowed 

charms. 
Whose sprightly wit my fancy warms, — 
What though she tends this country inn, 
And mixes wine, and deals out gin ? 
With such a kind, obliging lass, 
I sigh to take the parting glass. 

With him who always talks of gain 
(Dull Momus, of the plodding train). 
The wretch who thrives by others' woes, 
And carries grief where'er he goes, — 
With people of this knavish class 
The first is still my parting glass. 

With those that drink before they dine, 
With him that apes the grunting swine, 
Who fills his page with low abuse. 
And strives to act the gabbling goose 
Turned out by fate to feed on grass — 
Boy, give me quick, ihe parting glass. 

The man whose friendship is sincere. 
Who knows no guilt, and feels no fear, — 
It would require a heart of brass 
With him to take the parting glass. 

With him who quaffs his pot of ale, 
Who holds to all an even scale. 
Who hates a knave in each disguise, 
And fears him not — whate'er his size — 
With him, well pleased my days to pass. 
May heaven forbid the Parting Glass ! 



ON THE RUINS OF A COUNTRY 

INN 

Where now these mingled ruins lie 
A temple once to Bacchus rose. 

Beneath whose roof, aspiring high, 
Full many a guest forgot his woes. 

No more this dome, by tempests torn. 

Affords a social safe retreat; 
But ravens here, with eye forlorn. 

And clustering bats henceforth will meet. 

The Priestess of this ruined shrine, 

Unable to survive the stroke. 
Presents no more the ruddy wine, — 

Her glasses gone, her china broke. 

The friendly Host, whose social hand 
Accosted strangers at the door, 



EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION 



Has left at length his wonted stand, 
And greets the weary guest no more. 

Old creeping Time, that brings decay, 
Might yet have spared these mouldering 
walls. 

Alike beneath whose potent sway 
A temple or a tavern falls. 

Is this the place where mirth and joy, 
Coy nymphs, and sprightly lads were 
found ? 

Indeed ! no more the nymphs are coy, 
No more the flowing bowls go round. 

Is this the place where festive song 
Deceived the wintry hours away ? 

No more the swains the tune prolong, 
No more the maidens join the lay. 

Is this the place where Nancy slept 
In downy beds of blue and green ? 

Dame Nature here no vigils kept. 
No cold unfeeling guards were seen. 

'T is gone ! — and Nancy tempts no more ; 

Deep, unrelenting silence reigns ; 
Of all that pleased, that charmed before, 

The tottering chimney scarce remains. 

Ye tyrant winds, whose ruffian blast 

Through doors and windows blew too 
strong, 

And all the roof to ruin cast, — 

The roof that sheltered us so long, — 

Yoifr wrath appeased, I pray be kind 
If Mopsus should the dome renew. 

That we again may quaff his wine. 
Again collect our jovial crew. 



ON A TRAVELLING SPECULATOR 

On scent of game from town to town he flew. 
The soldier's curse pursued him on his 

Care in his eye, and anguish on his brow. 
He seemed a sea-hawk watching for his 
prey. 

With soothing words the widow's mite he 
gained. 
With piercing glance watched misery's 
dark abode, 



Filched paper scraps while yet a scrap re- 
mained, 
Bought where he must, and cheated 
where he could; 

Vast loads amassed of scrip, and who knows 
what; 
Potosi's wealth seemed lodged within his 
clutch, — 
But wealth has wings (he knew) and in- 
stant bought 
The prancing steed, gay harness, and gilt 
coach. 

One Sunday morn to church we saw him 
ride 
In glittering state — alack ! and who but 
he — 

The following week, with Madam at his side. 
To routs they drove — and drank Impe- 
rial tea ! 

In cards and fun the livelong day they 
spent. 
With songs and smut prolonged the mid- 
night feast, — 
If plays were had, to plays they constant 
went. 

Where Madam's top-knot rose a foot at 
least. 

Three weeks, and more, thus passed in airs 
of state, 

The fourth beheld the mighty bubble 
fail, — 

And he, who countless millions owned so 
late. 

Stopped short — and closed his triumphs 
in a jail. 



THE SCURRILOUS SCRIBE 

His soul extracted from the public sink, 
For discord born he splasht around his 

ink ; 
In scandal foremost, as by scandal fed, 
He hourly rakes the ashes of the dead. 

Secure from him no traveller walks the 

streets. 
His malice sees a foe in all he meets; 
With dark design he treads his daily rounds, 
Kills where he can, and, where he cannot, 

wounds. 






PHILIP FRENEAU 



Nature to hiin her stings of rancor gave 
To shed, miseen, the venom of a knave ; 
She gave him cunning, every treacherous 

art. 
She gave him all things but an upright 

heart ; 

And one thing more — she gave him but 
the pen, 

No power to hurt, not even the brass of 
men. 

Whose breasts though furies with their pas- 
sions rule 

Yet laugh at satire, pointed by a fool. 

Was there no world but ours to give you 

room ? 
No Patagonia, for your savage home. 
No region, where antarctic oceans roll, 
No icy island, neighboring to the pole ? 

By dark suspicion led, you aim at all 
Who will not to your sceptred idol fall; 
To work their ruin, every baseness try. 
First envy, next abuse us, then belie. 

Such is your stretch ! and thus awhile go on ! 
Your shafts rebound, and yet have injured 

none. 
Hurt whom they will, let who will injured 

be. 
The sons of smut and scandal hurt not me. 



TO A CATY-DID 

In a branch of willow hid 
Sings the evening Caty-did: 
From the lofty locust bough 
Feeding on a drop of dew. 
In her suit of green arrayed 
Hear her singing in the shade — 

Caty-did, Caty-did, Caty-did ! 

While upon a leaf you tread, 
Or repose your little head 
On your sheet of shadows laid, 
All the day you nothing said: 
Half the night your cheery tongue 
Revelled out its little song, — 

Nothing else but Caty-did. 

From your lodging on the leaf 
Did you utter joy or grief ? 
Did you only mean to say, 



/ have had my summer's day, 
And am passing, soon, away 
To the grave of Caty-did : 
Poor, unhappy Caty-did ! 

But you would have uttered more 
Had you known of nature's power ; 
From the world when you retreat, 
And a leaf 's your winding sheet. 
Long before your spirit fled. 
Who can tell but nature said, — 
Live again, my Caty-did ! 

Live, and chatter Caty-did. 

Tell me, what did Caty do ? 
Did she mean to trouble you ? 
Why was Caty not forbid 
To trouble little Caty-did ? 
Wrong, indeed, at you to fling, 
Hurting no one while you sing, — 

Caty-did ! Caty-did ! Caty-did ! 

Why continue to complain ? 
Caty tells me she again 
Will not give you plague or pain; 
Caty says you may be hid, 
Caty will not go to bed 
While you sing us Caty-did, — 

Caty-did! Caty-did! Caty-did J 

But, while singing, you forgot 
To tell us what did Caty not : 
Caty did not think of cold. 
Flocks retiring to the fold, 
Winter with his wrinkles old; 
Winter, that yourself foretold 

When you gave us Caty-did. 

Stay serenely on your nest; 
Caty now will do her best. 
All she can, to make you blest; 
But you want no human aid, — 
Nature, when she formed you, said, 

" Independent you are made. 
My dear little Caty-did: 
Soon yourself must disappear 
With the verdure of the year," 
And to go, we know not where, 

With your song of Caty-did. 



TO A HONEY BEE 

Thou, born to sip the lake or spring, 
Or quaff the waters of the stream, 



EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION 



Why hither come, on vagrant wing ? 
Does Bacchus tempting seem, — 
Did he for you this glass prepare ? 
Will I admit you to a share ? 

Did storms harass or foes pei-plex, 

Did wasps or king-birds bring dismay, — 
Did wars distress, or labors vex, 
Or did you miss your way ? 

A better seat you could not take 
Than on the margin of this lake. 

Welcome ! — I hail you to my glass: 

All welcome here you find; 
Here let the cloud of trouble pass, 
Here be all care resigned. 

This fluid never fails to please. 
And drown the griefs of men or bees. 

What forced you here we cannot know, 

And you will scarcely tell, 
But cheery we would have you go 
And bid a glad farewell: 

On lighter wings we bid you fly, — 
Your dart will now all foes defy. 

Yet take not, oh ! too deep a drink, 

And in this ocean die; a 

Here bigger bees than you mignt sink. 
Even bees full six feet high. 

Like Pharaoh, then, you would be 

said 
To perish in a sea of red. 



Do as you please, your will is mine; 

Enjoy it without fear, 
And your grave will be this glass 
wine, 
Your epitaph — a tear; 

Go, take your seat in Charon's boat; 
We '11 tell the hive, you died afloat. 



of 



PLATO TO THEON 

The grandeur of this earthly round, 
Where Theon would forever be, 

Is but a name, is but a sound — 
Mere emptiness and vanity. 

Give me the stars, give me the skies. 
Give me the heaven's remotest sphere; 

Above these gloomy scenes to rise 
Of desolation and despair. 

These native fires that warmed the mind* 
Now languid grown, too dimly glow; 

Joy has to grief the heart resigned, 
And love itself is changed to woe. 

The joys of wine are all you boast, — 
These for a moment damp your pain; 

The gleam is o'er, the charm is lost, 
And darkness clouds the soul again. 

Then seek no more for bliss below, 
Where real bliss can ne'er be found; 

Aspire where sweeter blossoms blow 
And fairer flowers bedeck the ground; 

Where plants of life the plains invest, 
And green eternal crowns the year; 

The little god within your breast 
Is weary of his mansion here. 

Like Phosphor, sent before the day, 
His height meridian to regain, — 

The dawn arrives — he must not stay 
To shiver on a frozen plain. 

Life's journey past, for death prepare, — 
'T is but the freedom of the mind ; 

Jove made us mortal — his we are ; 
To Jove, dear Theon, be resigned. 



^Hutjjot (anfounti* 



THE YANKEE MAN-OF-WAR 

'T IS of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the 
stripes and stars, 

And the whistling wind from the west- 
uor'-west blew through the pitch- 
pine spars; 



1 See Biographical Note, p. 778. 



With her starboard tacks aboard, my boys, 

she hung upon the gale; 
On an autumn night we raised the light on 

the old Head of Kinsale. 

It was a clear and cloudless night, and the 
wind blew steady and strong, 



TIMOTHY DWIGHT 



As gayly over the sparkling deep our good 

ship bowled along; 
With the foaming seas beneath her bow 

the' fiery waves she spread, 
And bending low her bosom of snow, she 

buried her lee cat-head. 

There was no talk of short'ning sail by him 

who walked the poop, 
And under the press of her pond'ring jib, 

the boom bent like a hoop ! 
And the groaning water-ways told the 

strain that held her stout main-tack, 
But he only laughed as he glanced aloft at 

a white and silvery track. 

The mid-tide meets in the Channel waves 

that flow from shore to shore, 
And the mist hung heavy upon the land 

from Featherstone to Dunmore, 
And that sterling light in Tusker' Rock 

where the old bell tolls each hour, 
And the beacon light that shone so bright 

was quench'd on Waterford Tower. 

What looms upon our starboard bow ? 
What hangs upon the breeze ? 



'T is time our good ship hauled her wind 

abreast the old Saltees, 
For by her ponderous press of sail and by 

her consorts four 
We saw our morning visitor was a British 

man-of-war. 

Up spake our noble Captain then, as a shot 
ahead of us past — 

" Haul snug your flowing courses ! lay 
your topsail to the mast ! " 

Those Englishmen gave three loud hurrahs 
from the deck of their covered ark, 

And we answered back by a solid broad- 
side from the decks of our patriot 
bark. 

" Out booms ! out booms ! " our skipper 

cried, "out booms and give her 

sheet," 
And the swiftest keel that was ever 

launched shot ahead of the British 

fleet. 
And amidst a thundering shower of shot, 

with stun'-sails hoisting away, 
Down the North Channel Paul Jones did 

steer Just at the break of day. 



THE SMOOTH DIVINE 



There smiled the smooth Divine, unused 

to wound 
The sinner's heart with hell's alarming 

sound. 
No terrors on his gentle tongue attend; 
No grating truths the nicest ear offend. 
That strange new-birth, that methodistic 

grace, 
Nor in his heart nor sermons found a 

place. 
Plato's fine tales he clumsily retold, 
Trite, fireside, moral seesaws, dull as 

old,— 
His Christ and Bible placed at good re- 
move. 
Guilt hell-deserving, and forgiving love. 
'T was best, he said, mankind should cease 

to sin: 
Good fame required it; so did peace 

within. 



Their honors, well he knew, would ne'er be 
driven; 

But hoped they still would please to go to 
heaven. 

Each week he paid his visitation dues ; 

Coaxed, jested, laughed; rehearsed the 
private news; 

Smoked with each goody, thought her 
cheese excelled; 

Her pipe he lighted, and her baby held. 

Or placed in some great town, with lac- 
quered shoes, 

Trim wig, and trimmer gown, and glisten- 
ing hose. 

He bowed, talked politics, learned manners 
mild. 

Most meekly questioned, and most smoothly 
smiled ; 

At rich men's jests laughed loud, their sto- 
ries praised. 

Their wives' new patterns gazed, and gazed, 
and gazed; 



lo EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION 


Most daintily on pampered turkeys dined, 


Dear as the apple of thine eye, 


Nor shrunk with fasting, nor with study 

pined: 
Yet from their churches saw his brethren 


And graven on thy hand. 


If e'er to bless thy sons 


driven, 


My voice or hands deny. 


Who thundered truth, and spoke the voice 


These hands let useful skill forsake, 


of heaven, 


This voice in silence die. 


Chilled trembling guilt in Satan's headlong 




path. 


For her my tears shall fall. 


Charmed the feet back, and roused the ear 


For her my prayers ascend; 


of death. 


To her my cares and toils be given 


"Let fools," he cried, "starve on, while 


Till toils and cares shall end. 


prudent I 




Snug in my nest shall live, and snug shall 


Beyond my highest joy 


die." 


I prize her heavenly ways. 




Her sweet communion, solemn vows, 




Her hymns of love and praise. 


LOVE TO THE CHURCH 


Jesus, thou friend divine. 




Our Saviour and our King, 


I LOVE thy kingdom. Lord, 


Thy hand from every snare and foe 


The house of thine abode, 


Shall great deliverance bring. 


The church our blest Redeemer saved 




With his own precious blood. 


Sure as thy truth shall last. 




To Zion shall be given 


I love thy church, God ! 


The brightest glories earth can yield, 


Her walls before thee stand, 


And brighter bliss of heaven. 



d^t. (Deorgc €ucher 



DAYS OF MY YOUTH 

Days of my youth. 

Ye have glided away; 
Hairs of my youth. 

Ye are frosted and gray; 
Eyes of my youth, 

Your keen sight is no more; 
Cheeks of my youth. 

Ye are furrowed all o'er; 
Strength of my youth. 

All your vigor is gone ; 
Thoughts of my youth. 

Your gay visions are flown. 

Days of my youth, 

I wish not your recall; 
Hairs of my youth, 

I 'm content ye should fall; 
Eyes of my youth, 



You much evil have seen; 
Cheeks of my youth. 

Bathed in tears have you been; 
Thoughts of my youth. 

You have led me astray; 
Strength of xnj youth. 

Why lament your decay ? 

Days of my age. 

Ye will shortly be past; 
Pains of my age. 

Yet awhile ye can last; 
Joys of my age. 

In true wisdom delight; 
Eyes of my age. 

Be religion your light; 
Thoughts of my age. 

Dread ye not the cold sod; 
Hopes of my age. 

Be ye fixed on your God. 



ST. GEORGE TUCKER — ST. JOHN HONEYWC_^ 



^t. Sjoftn ^^oneptooob 



DARBY AND JOAN 



Tl: When Darby saw the setting sun, 

He swung his scythe, and home he run, 
Sat down, drank off his quart, and said, 
" My work is done, I '11 go to bed." 
Ti " My work is done ! " retorted Joan, 

" My work is done ! your constant tone ; 
But hapless woman ne'er can say, 
' My work is done,' till judgment day. 
You men can sleep all night, but we 
Must toil." — " Whose fault is that?" 

quoth he. 
"I know your meaning," Joan replied, 
*' But, Sir, my tongue shall not be tied ; 
I will go on, and let you know 
What work poor women have to do: 
First, in the morning, though we feel 
As sick as drunkards when they reel, — 
Yes, feel such pains in back and head 
As would confine you men to bed. 
We ply the brush, we wield the broom, 
We air the beds, and right the room ; 
The cows must next be milked — and then 
We get the breakfast for the men. 
Ere this is done, with whimpering cries. 
And bristly hair, the children rise; 
These must be dressed, and dosed with 

rue. 
And fed — and all because of you : 
We next " — Here Darby scratched his 

head, 
And stole off grumbling to his bed; 
And only said, as on she run, 
" Zounds ! woman's clack is never done." 



At early dawn, ere Phcebus rose. 
Old Joan resumed her taHe of woes; 
When Darby thus — "I 'll end the strife, 
Be yon the man and I the wife: 
Take you the scythe and mow, while I 
Will all your boasted cares supply." 
" Content," quoth Joan, " give me my 

stint." 
This Darby did, and out she went. 



Old Darby rose and seized the broom 
And whirled the dirt about the room: 
Which having done, he scarce knew how, 
He hied to milk the brindled cow. 
The brindled cow whisked round her tail 
In Darby's ej'es, and kicked the pail. 
The clown, perplexed with grief 

pain. 
Swore he 'd ne'er try to milk again : 
When turning round, in sad amaze, 
He saw his cottage in a blaze: 
For as he chanced to brush the room, 
In careless haste, he fired the broom. 
The fire at last subdued, he swore 
The broom and he would meet no more. 
Pressed by misfortune, and perplext. 
Darby prepared for breakfast next; 
But what to get he scarcely knew — 
The bread was spent, the butter too. 
His hands bedaubed with paste and flour, 
Old Darby labored full an hour: 
But, luckless wight ! thou couldst not 

make 
The bread take form of loaf or. cake. 
As every-jdoor wide open stood, 
In pushed the^sow in quest of food; 
And, stumbling onwards, with her snout 
O'erset the churn — the cream ran out. 
As Darby turned the sow to beat. 
The slippery cream betrayed his feet; 
He caught the bread trough in his fall, 
And down came Darby, trough, and all. 
The children, wakened by the clatter. 
Start up, and cry, "Oh ! what 's the mat- 
ter ? " 
Old Jowler barked, and Tabby mewed, 
And hapless Darby bawled aloud, 
" Return, my Joan, as heretofore, 
I'll play the housewife's part no more: 
Since now, by sad experience taught. 
Compared to thine my work is naught; 
Henceforth, as biisiness calls, I '11 take. 
Content, the plough, the scythe, the rake, 
And never more transgress the line 
Our fates have marked, while then art 

mine. 
Then Joan, return, as heretofore, 
I '11 vex thy honest soul no more ; 
Let 's each our proper task attend — 
Forgive the past, and strive to mend." 



EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION 



^Ckjrantjcr JBiliSfon 



THE FISHERMAN'S HYMN 

.'he osprey sails above the sound, 

The geese are gone, the gulls are flying; 
The herring shoals swarm thick around, 
The nets are launched, the boats are 
plying; 
Yo ho, my hearts ! let 's seek the deep, 
Raise high the song, and cheerily 
wish her, 
Still as tlie bending net we sweep, 
" God bless the fish-hawk and the 
fisher ! " 

3he brings us fish — she brings us spring. 
Good times, fair weather, warmth, and 
plenty. 
Fine stores of shad, trout, herring, ling, 
Sheepshead and drum, and old-wives 
dainty. 
Yo ho, my hearts ! let 's seek the deep. 
Ply every oar, and cheerily wish her. 
Still as the bending net we sweep, 
"God bless the fish-hawk and the 
fisher ! " 

She rears her young on yonder tree. 

She leaves her faithful mate to mind 'em; 
Like us, for fish, she sails to sea, 

And, plunging, shows us where to find 

'em. 

Yo ho, my hearts ! let 's seek the deep. 

Ply every oar, and cheerily wish her, 

While the slow bending net we sweep, 

"God bless the fish-hawk and the 

' fisher ! " 



THE BLUE-BIRD 

When winter's cold tempests and snows 
are no more, 
Green meadows and brown-furrowed 
fields reappearing. 
The fishermen hauling their shad to the 
shore, 
And cloud-cleaving geese to the Lakes 
are a-steering; 
When first the lone butterfly flits on the 
wing; 
When red glow the maples, so fresh and 
so pleasing, 



Oh then comes the blue-bird, the herald of 



spruig 



And hails with his warblings the charms 
of the season. 

Then loud-piping frogs make the marshes 
to ring; 
Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine 
is the weather; 
The blue woodland flowers just beginning 
to spring. 
And spieewood and sassafras budding 
together: 
Oh then to your gardens, ye housewives, 



repair 



Your walks border up ; sow and plant at 

your leisure; 
The blue-bird will chant from his box such 

an air 
That all your hard toils will seem truly 

a pleasure. 

He flits through the orchards, he visits 
each tree. 
The red-flowering peach and the apple's 
sweet blossoms; 
He snaps up destroyers wherever they be. 
And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their 
bosoms; 
He drags the vile grub from the corn he 
devours. 
The worm from their webs where they riot 
and welter; 
His song and his services freely are ours, 
And all that he asks is in summer a shel- 
ter. 

The plotighman is pleased when he gleans 
in his train. 
Now searching the furrows, now mount- 
ing to cheer him; 
The gardener delights in his sweet simple 
strain. 
And leans on his spade to survey and to 
hear him ; 
The slow-lingering schoolboys forget 
they '11 be chid. 
While gazing intent as he warbles before 
'em 
In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red. 
That each little loiterer seems to adore 
him. 



ALEXANDER WILSON — JOHN QUINCY ADAMS 



13 



When al the gay scenes of the summer 
are o'er, 
And autumn slow enters so silent and 
sallow, 
And millions of warblers, that charmed us 
before. 
Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking 
swallow. 
The blue-bird forsaken, yet true to his 
home, 
Still lingers, and looks for a milder to- 
morrow. 
Till, forced by the horrors of winter to 
roam, 
He sings his adieu in a lone note of sor- 
row. 



While spring's lovely season, serene, dewy, 
warm. 
The green face of eUrth, and the pure 
blue of heaven. 
Or love's native music, have influence to 
charm. 
Or sympathy's glow to our feelings is 
given. 
Still dear to each bosom the blue-bird shall 
be; 
His voice like the thrillings of hope is a 
treasure; 
For, through bleakest storms if a calm he 
but see. 
He comes to remind us of sunshine and 
pleasure ! 



S[ofjn €Juincp 3Ctiam^ 



TO SALLY 

The man in righteousness arrayed, 

A pure and blameless liver. 
Needs not the keen Toledo blade, 

Nor venom-freighted quiver. 
What though he wind his toilsome way 

O'er regions wild and weary — 
Through Zara's burning desert stray, 

Or Asia's jungles dreary: 

What though he plough the billowy 
deep 

By lunar light, or solar, 
Meet the resistless Simoon's sweep. 

Or iceberg circumpolar ! 
In bog or quagmire deep and dank 

His foot shall never settle; 
He mounts the summit of Mont Blanc, 

Or Popocatapetl. 

On Chimborazo's breathless height 

He treads o'er burning lava; 
Or snuffs the Bohan Upas blfght, 

The deathf ul plant of Java. 
Through every peril he shall pass, 

By Virtue's shield protected; 
And still by Truth's unerring glass 

His path shall be directed. 

Else wherefore was it, Thursday last, 
While strolling down the valley. 

Defenceless, musing as I passed 
A canzonet to Sally, 



A wolf, with mouth-protruding snout, 
Forth from the thicket bounded ^ 

I clapped my hands and raised a shout — 
He heard — and fled — confounded. 

Tangier nor Tunis never bred 

An animal more crabbed ; 
Nor Fez, dry-nurse of lions, fed 

A monster half so rabid; 
Nor Ararat so fierce a beast 

Has seen since days of Noah ; 
Nor stronger, eager for a feast. 

The fell constrictor boa. 

Oh ! place me where the solar beam 

Has scorched all verdure vernal; 
Or on the polar verge extreme. 

Blocked up with ice eternal — 
Still shall my voice's tender lays 

Of love remain unbroken ; 
And still my charming Sally praise, 

Sweet smiling and sweet spoken. 

THE LIP AND THE HEART 

One day between the Lip and the Heart 

A wordless strife arose, 
Which was expertest in the art 

His purpose to disclose. 

The Lip called forth the vassal Tongue, 
And made him vouch — a lie ! 

The slave his servile anthem sung. 
And braved the listening sky. 



14 



EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION 



The Heart to speak in vain essayed, 
Nor could his purpose reach — 

His will nor voice nor tongue obeyed, 
His silence was his speech. 



Mark thou their difference, child of earth ! 

While each performs his part, 
Not all the lip can speak is worth 

The silence of the heart. 



SJosepfj i^ophin^on 



HAIL COLUMBIA 

Hail, Columbia ! happy land ! 
Hail, ye heroes ! heaven-born band ! 

Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, 

Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, 
And when the storm of war was gone, 
Enjoyed the peace your valor won. 

Let independence be our boast, 

Ever mindful what it cost; 

Ever grateful for the prize, 

Let its altar reach the skies. 

Firm, united, let us be, 
Rallying round our Liberty; 
As a band of brothers joined, 
Peace and safety we shall find. 

Immortal patriots ! rise once more: 
Defend your rights, defend your shore: 
Let no rude foe, with impious hand. 
Let no rude foe, with impious hand, 
Invade the shrine where sacred lies 
Of toil and blood the well-earned prize. 
While offering peace sincere and just. 
In Heaven we place a manly trust. 
That truth and justice will prevail, 
And every scheme of bondage fail. 

Firm, united, etc. 



ap- 



Sound, sound, the trump of Fame ! 

Let Washington's great name 

Ring through the world with loud ap' 

plause, 
Ring through the world with loud 
plause ; 

Let every clime to Freedom dear, 

Listen with a joyful ear. 

With equal skill, and godlike power, 
He governed in the fearful hour 
Of horrid war; or guides, with ease. 
The happier times of honest peace. 

Firm, united, etc. 

Behold the chief who now commands, 
Once more to serve his country, stands — 
The rock on which the storm will beat, 
The rock on which the storm will beat; 
But, armed in virtue firm and true, 
His hopes are fixed on Heaven and you. 
When hope was sinking in dismay. 
And glooms obscured Columbia's day. 
His steady mind, from changes free. 
Resolved on death or liberty. 

Firm, united, let us be. 
Rallying round our Liberty; 
As a band of brothers joined, 
Peace* and safety we shall find. 



gjoftn ^fiaixj 



SONG 

Who has robbed the ocean cave, 

To tinge thy lips with coral hue ? 
Who from India's distant wave 

For thee those pearly treasures drew ? 
Who, from yonder orient sky, 
Stole the morning of thine eye ? 



Thousand charms, thy form to deck, 
From sea, and earth, and air i 
torn ; 
Roses bloom upon thy cheek. 

On thy breath their fragrance borne. 
Guard thy bosom from the day. 
Lest thy snows should melt away. 



i 



HOPKINSON — SHAW — MOORE 



^5 



But one charm remains behind, 

Which mute earth can ne'er impart; 
Nor in ocean wilt thou find, 
Nor in the circling air, a heart. 
Fairest ! wouldst thou perfect be, 
Take, oh take that heart from me. 

SLEIGHING SONG 

Whe!n calm is the night, and the stars 
shine bright, 
The sleigh glides smooth and cheerily; 
And mirth and jest abound. 
While all is still around, 
Save the horses' trampling sound. 
And the horse-bells tinkling merrily. 



But when the drifting s."'^w in the travel- 
ler's face shall blow 
And hail is driving drear ^" ^ 
And the wind is shrill aud. loud, 
Then no sleigh shall stir abroad, 
Nor along the beaten road 
Shall the horse-bells tinkle merrily. 

But to-night the skies are clear, and we 
have not to fear 
That the time should linger wearily; 
For good-humor has a charm 
Even winter to disarm. 
And our cloaks shall wrap us warm, 
And the bells shall tinkle merrily. 



Clement Clarftc ^oott 



A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS 

'T WAS the night before Christmas, when 
all through the house 

Not a creature was stirring, not even a 
mouse; 

The stockings were hung by the chimney 
with care. 

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be 
there ; 

The children were nestled all snug in their 
beds. 

While visions of sugar-plums danced in 
their heads; 

And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my 
cap, 

Had just settled our brains for a long win- 
ter's nap, 

When out on the lawn there arose such a 
clatter, 

I sprang from the bed to see what was the 
matter. 

Away to the window I flew like a flash, 

Tore open the shutters and threw up the 
sash. 

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen 
snow 

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects be- 
low, 

When, what to my wondering eyes should 
appear. 

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny rein- 
deer, 



With a little old driver, so lively and 

quick, 
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 
More rapid than eagles his coursers they 

came. 
And he whistled, and shouted, and called 

them by name ; 
" Now, Dasher ! now. Dancer ! now, Pran- 

cer and Vixen ! 
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Dander and 

Blitzen ! 
To the top of the porch ! to the top of the 

wall ! 
Now dash away ! dash away ! dash away 

all ! " 
As dry leaves that before the wild hurri- 
cane fly. 
When they meet with an obstacle, mount 

to the sky; 
So up to the house-top the coursers they 

flew. 
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nich- 
olas too. 
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the 

roof 
The prancing and pawing of each little 

hoof. 
As I drew in my head, and was turning 

around, 
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with 

a bound. 
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to 

his foot, 



i6 



EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION 



And his clothe'j^^jwere all tarnished with 
ashes p^ ^ soot ; 

A bundle fy^j^xoys he had flung on his 
back, 

And he looked like a pedler just opening 
his pack. 

His eyes — how they twinkled! his dim- 
ples how merry ! 

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a 
cherry ! 

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a 
bow, 

And the beard of his chin was as white as 
the snow; 

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his 
teeth, 

And the smoke it encircled his head like a 
wreath; 

He had a broad face and a little round 
belly, 

That shook when he laughed, like a bowl- 
ful of jelly. 



He was chubby and plump, a right jolly 

old elf, 
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of 

myself; 
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head. 
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to 

dread ; 
He spoke not a word, but went straight to 

his work, 
And filled all the stockings; then turned 

with a jerk. 
And laying his finger aside of his nose, 
And giving a nod, up the chimney he 

rose; 
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a 

whistle, 
And away they all flew like the down of a 

thistle. 
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out 

of sight, 
" Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good- 
night." 



ftanti^ ^cott iflcp 



MHE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 

O SAY, can you see, by the dawn's early 

light, 
What so proudly we hailed at the twi- 
light's last gleaming — 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, 

through the clouds of the fight. 
O'er the ramparts we watched were so 

gallantly streaming ! 
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs 

bursting in air, 
Gave proof through the night that our flag 

was still there; 
O ! say, does that stai^spangled banner yet 

wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of 

the brave ? 

On that shore dimly seen through the mists 

of the deep. 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread 

silence reposes, 
What is that which the breeze, o'er the 

towering steep, 



As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now 

discloses ? 
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's 

first beam, 
In full glory reflected now shines on the 

stream ; 
'T is the star-spangled banner; O long may 

it wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of 

the brave ! 

And where is that band who so vauntingly 

swore 
That the havoc of war and the battle's 

confusion 
A home and a country should leave us no 

more ? 
Their blood has washed out their foul 

footsteps' pollution. 
No refuge could save the hireling and 

slave 
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of 

the grave; 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph 

doth wave 



FRANCIS KEY— JAMES KIRKE PAULDING 



17 



O'er the land of the free, and the home of 
the brave. 

O ! thus be it ever, when freemen shall 

stand 
Between their loved homes and the war's 

desolation ! 
Blest with victory and peace, may the 

heav'n-rescued land 



Praise the power that hath made and pre- 
served us a nation. 

Then conquer we must, when our cause it 
is just. 

And this be our motto — "In God is our 
trust : " 

And the star-spangled banner in triumph 
shall wave 

O'er the land of the free, and the home of 
the brave. 



3[aniei6f Mtke f>aultiing 



THE OLD MAN'S CAROUSAL 

Drink ! drink ! to whom shall we drink ? 
To a friend or a mistress ? Come, let me 

think ! 
To those who are absent, or those who are 

here ? 
To the dead that we loved, or the living 

still dear ? 
Alas ! when I look, I find none of the last ! 
The present is barren, — let 's drink to the 

past ! 

Come ! here 's to the girl with a voice 
sweet and low, 

The eye all of fire and the bosom of snow, 

Who erewhile, in the days of my youth 
that are fled. 

Once slept on my bosom, and pillowed my 
head ! 

Would you know where to find such a deli- 
cate prize ? 

Go seek in yon church-yard, for there she 
lies. 

And here 's to the friend^ the one friend of 
my youth, 

With a head full of genius, a heart full of 
truth. 

Who traveled with me in the sunshine of 
life, 

And stood by my side in its peace and its 
strife ! 

Would you know where to seek for a bless- 
ing so rare ? 

Go drag the lone sea, you may find him 
there. 



And here 's to a brace of twin cherubs of 

mine. 
With hearts like their mother's, as pure as 

this wine. 
Who came but to see the first act of the 

play. 
Grew tired of the scene, and then both went 

away. 
Would you know where this brace of 

bright cherubs have hied ? 
Go seek them in heaven, for there they 

abide. 

A bumper, my boys ! to a gray-headed 

pair. 
Who watched o'er my childhood with ten- 

derest care. 
God bless them, and keep them, and may 

they look down 
On the head of their son, without tear, 

sigh, or frown ! 
Would you know whom I drink to ? go 

seek 'mid the dead. 
You will find both their names on the stone 

at their head. 

And here 's — but alas ! the good wine is 
no more. 

The bottle is emptied of all its bright store; 

Like those we have toasted, its spirit is 
fled. 

And nothing is left of the light that it 
shed. 

Then, a bumper of tears, boys ! the ban- 
quet here ends. 

With a health to our dead, since we 've no 
living friends. 



i8 



Ex\RLY YEARS OF THE NATION 



AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN ROSALIE 



All hail ! thou noble land, 
Our Fathers' native soil ! 
Oh, stretch thy mighty hand, 
Gigantic grown by toil. 
O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore ! 
For thou with magic might 
Canst reach to where the light 
Of Phoebus travels bright 
The world o'er ! 

The Genius of our clime. 

From his pine-embattled steep. 
Shall hail the guest sublime; 
While the Tritons of the deep 
With their conchs the kindred league shall 
proclaim. 
Then let the world combine, — 
O'er the main our naval line 
Like the milky-way shall shine 
Bright in fame ! 

Though ages long have past 

Since our Fathers left their home. 
Their pilot in the blast, 

O'er untravelled seas to roam, 
5ret lives the blood of England in our veins ! 
And shall we not proclaim 
That blood of honest fame 
Which no tyranny can tame 
By its chains ? 

While the language free and bold 

Which the bard of Avon sung, 
In which our Milton told 

How the vault of heaven rung 
When Satan, blasted, fell with his host; — 
While this, with reverence meet. 
Ten thousand echoes greet, 
From rock to rock repeat 
Round our coast ; — 

While the manners, while the arts, 

That mould a nation's soul. 
Still cling around our hearts, — 
Between let Ocean roll, 
Ourjoint communion breaking with the Sun: 
Yet still from either beach 
The voice of blood shall reach, 
More audible than speech, 
« We are One." 



" POUR upon my soul again 
That sad, unearthly strain. 

That seems from other worlds to plain; 

Thus falling, falling from afar, 

As if some melancholy star 

Had mingled with her light her sighs, 
And dropped them from the skies ! 

" No, — never came from aught below 

This melody of woe. 
That makes my heart to overflow, 
As from a thousand gushing springs 
Unknown before ; that with it brings 
This nameless light, — if light it be, — 

That veils the world I see. 

" For all I see around me wears 

The hue of other spheres; 
And something blent of smiles and tears 
Comes from the very air I breathe. 
O, nothing, sure, the stars beneath 
Can mould a sadness like to this, — 
So like angelic bliss." 

So, at that dreamy hour of day. 
When the last lingering ray 

Stops on the highest cloud to play, — 

So thought the gentle Rosalie, 

As on her maiden reverie 

First fell the strain of him who stole 
In music to her soul. 



ON THE LATE S. T. COLERIDGE 

And thou art gone, most loved, most hon- 
ored friend ! 
No, nevermore thy gentle voice shall blend 
With air of Earth its pure ideal tones. 
Binding in one, as with harmonious zones. 
The heart and intellect. And I no more 
Shall with thee gaze on that unfathomed 

deep, 
The Human Soul, — as when, pushed ofB 

the shore. 
Thy mystic bark would through the dark- 
ness sweep. 
Itself the while so bright ! For oft we 

seemed 
As on some starless sea, — all dark above, 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON — THOMAS HASTINGS 



19 



All dark below, — yet, onward as we drove. 
To plough up light that ever round us 
streamed. 



But he who mourns is not as one bereft 
Of all he loved : thy living Truths are 
left. 



€Soma^ ^a^ringjS? 



THE LATTER DAY 

Hail to the brightness of Zion's glad morn- 
ing; 
Joy to the lands that in darkness have 
lain; 
Hushed be the accents of sorrow and 
mourning; 
Zion in triumph begins her mild reign ! 

Hail to the brightness of Zion's glad morn- 
ing, 
Long by the prophets of Israel foretold; 
Hail to the millions from bondage return- 
ing; 
Gentiles and Jews the blest vision behold ! 

Lo, in the desert rich flowers are spring- 
ing; 
Streams ever copious are gliding along; 
Loud from the mountain-tops echoes are 
ringing; 
Wastes rise in verdure, and mingle in 
song. 

See, from all lands, from the isles of the 
ocean, 
Praise to Jehovah ascending on high; 
Fallen are the engines of war and commo- 
tion; 
Shouts of salvation are rending the sky ! 



IN SORROW 

Gently, Lord, oh, gently lead us. 
Pilgrims in this vale of tears, 

Through the trials yet decreed us, 
Till our last great change appears. 

When temptation's darts assail us, 
When in devious paths we stray, 



Let thy goodness never fail us, 
Lead us in thy perfect way. 

In the hour of pain and anguish, 

In the hour when death draws near, 
Suifer not our hearts to languish. 

Suffer not our souls to fear; 
And, when mortal life is ended, 

Bid us in thine arms to rest. 
Till, by angel bands attended, 

We awake among the blest. 



EXHORTATION 

Child of sin and sorrow. 

Filled with dismay. 
Wait not for to-morrow, 

Yield thee to-day. 

Heaven bids thee come 

While yet there 's room : 
Child of sin and sorrow ! 

Hear and obey. 

Child of sin and sorrow. 

Why wilt thou die ? 
Come whilst thon canst borrow 

Help from on high: 

Grieve not that love 

Which from above. 
Child of sin and sorrow, 

Would bring thee nigh. 

Child of sin and sorrow, 

Thy moments glide 
Like the flitting arrow, 

Or the rushing tide; 

Ere time is o'er. 

Heaven's grace implore: 
Child of sin and sorrow. 

In Christ confide. 



20 



EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION 



d§>aiTiueI H^ootitDort& 



THE BUCKET 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of 
my childhood, 
When fond recollection presents them 
to view ! 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled 
wild-wood. 
And every loved spot which my infancy 
knew ! 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that 
stood by it, 
The bridge, and the rock where the cata- 
ract fell, 
The cot of my father, the dairj^-house nigh it. 
And e'en the rude bucket that hung in 
the well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bouud 

bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the 
well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a trea- 
sure, 
For often at noon, when returned from 
the field, 

I found it the source of an exquisite plea- 
sure. 
The purest and sweetest that nature can 
yield. 

How ardent I seized it, with hands that 
were glowing, 
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom 
it fell; 

Then soon, with the emblem of truth over- 
flowing. 
And dripping with coolness, it rose from 
the well — 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 
bucket, 

The moss-covered bucket arose from the 
well. 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to 

receive it. 
As poised on the curb it inclined to my 

lips ! 
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me 

to leave it, 
. The brightest that beauty or revelry 

sips. 



And now, far removed from the loved hab- 
itation, 
The tear of regret will intrusively 
swell, 

As fancy reverts to my father's planta- 
tion, 
And sighs for the bucket that hangs in 
the well — 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 
bucket. 

The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the 
well! 



LOVES SHE LIKE ME? 

SAY, my flattering heart, 
Loves she like me ? 

Is her's thy counterpart, 

Throbs it like thee ? 
Does she remember yet 
The spot where first we met, 
Which I shall ne'er forget, 

Loves she like me ? 

Soft echoes still repeat 
" Loves she like me ? " 

When on that mossy seat. 
Beneath the tree, 

1 wake my amorous lay 
While lambkins round me play, 
And whispering zephyrs say, 

Loves she like me ? 

On her I think by day, 

Loves she like me ? 
With her in dreams I stray 

O'er mead and lea. 
My hopes of earthly bliss 
Are all comprised in this. 
To share her nuptial kiss, — 

Loves she like me ? 

Does absence give her pain ? 

Loves she like me ? 
And does she thus arraign 

Fortune's decree ? 
Does she my name repeat ? 
Will she with rapture greet 
The hour that sees us meet ? 

Loves she like me ? 



SAMUEL WOODWORTH — RICHARD HENRY DANA 



lUicJarti ^gcnrp HOana 



THE LITTLE BEACH-BIRD 

Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, 
Why takest thou its melancholy voice, 
Aud with that boding cry 
Why o'er the waves dost fly ? 
O, rather, bird, with me 

Through the fair land rejoice ! 

Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and 
pale, 
As driven by a beating storm at sea; 
Thy cry is weak and scared, 
As if thy mates had shared 
The doom of us : Thy wail, — 
What doth it bring to me ? 

Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st 
the surge. 
Restless and sad ; as if, in strange accord 
With the motion and the roar 
Of waves that drive to shore, 
One spirit did ye urge — 
The Mystery — the Word. 

Of thousands, thou, both sepulchre and 
pall, 
Old Ocean ! A requiem o'er the dead 
From out thy gloomy cells 
A tale of mourning tells, — 
Tells of man's woe and fall. 
His sinless glory fled. 

Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy 
flight 
Where the complaining sea shall sadness 
bring 
Thy spirit never more; 
Come, quit with me the shore, 
And on the meadows light 

Where birds for gladness sing ! 



IMMORTALITY 

And do our loves all perish with our 

frames ? 
Do those that took their root and put forth 

buds. 
And their soft leaves unfolded in the 

warmth 



Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in 
beauty. 

Then fade and fall, like fair, unconscious 
flowers ? 

Are thoughts and passions that to the 
tongue give speech, 

And make it send forth winning harmo- 
nies, — 

That to the cheek do give its living glow, 

And vision in the eye the soul intense 

With that for which there is no utter- 
ance — 

Are these the body's accidents ? — no 
more ? — 

To live in it, and when that dies, go out 

Like the burnt taper's flame ? 

O, listen, man ! 
A voice within us speaks the startling word, 
" Man, thou shalt never die ! " Celestial 

voices 
Hymn it around our souls : according harps. 
By angel fingers touched when the mild 

stars 
Of morning sang together, sound forth 

still 
The song of our great immortality: 
Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair 

domain. 
The tall, dark mountains, and the deep- 
toned seas. 
Join in this solemn, universal song. 

O, listen ye, our spirits; drink it in 
From all the air ! 'T is in the gentle moon- 
light; 
'T is floating in day's setting glories; Night, 
Wrapt in her sable robe, with silent step 
Comes to our bed and breathes it in our 

ears: 
Night, and the dawn, bright day, and 

thoughtful eve, 
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse. 
As one vast mystic instrument, are touched 
By an unseen, living Hand ; the conscious 

chords » 

Quiver with joy in this great jubilee; 
The dying hear it, and as sounds of earth 
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing 

souls 
To mingle in this heavenly harmony. 



EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION 



THE CHANTING CHERUBS — A 
GROUP BY GREENOUGH 

Whence come ye, Cherubs ? from the 
moon ? 
Or from a shining star ? 
Ye sure are sent, a blessed boon, 
From kinder worlds afar; 
For, while I look, my heart is all delight: 
Earth has no creatures half so pure and 
bright. 

From moon nor star we hither flew; 

The moon doth wane away, — 
The stars they pale at morning dew; 
We 're children of the day ; 
Nor change, nor night, was ever ours to 

bear; 
Eternal light, and love, and joy, we share. 

Then, sons of light, from Heaven above 

Some blessed news ye bring. 
Come ye to chant eternal love 
And tell how angels sing, 
And in your breathing, conscious forms to 

show 
How purer forms above live, breathe, and 
glow? 

Our parent is a human mind; 

His winged thoughts are we; 
To sun nor stars are we confined: 
We pierce the deepest sea. 
Moved by a brother's call, our Father 

bade 
Us light on earth, and here our flight is 
stayed. 



THE MOSS SUPPLICATETH FOR 
THE POET 

Though I am humble, slight me not. 
But love me for the Poet's sake; 

Forget me not till he 's forgot. 

For care or slight with him I take. 

For oft he passed the blossoms by 
And turned to me with kindly look; 

Left flaunting flowers and open sky. 
And wooed me by the shady brook. 

And like the brook his voice was low: 
So soft, so sad the words he spoke, 



That with the stream they seemed to 
flow; 
They told me that his heart was broke. 

They said the world he fain would shun, 
And seek the still and twilight wood, — 

His spirit, weary of the sun. 

In humblest things found chief est good; 

That I was of a lowly frame. 

And far more constant than the flower, 
Which, vain with many a boastful name, 

But fluttered out its idle hour; 

That I was kind to old decay, 

And wrapped it softly round in green, — 
On naked root, and trunk of gray, 

Spread out a garniture and screen. 

They said that he was withering fast, 
Without a sheltering friend like me; 

That on his manhood fell a blast, 
And left him bare, like yonder tree; 

That spring would clothe his boughs no 
more. 

Nor ring his boughs with song of bird, — 
Sounds like the melancholy shore 

Alone were through his branches heard. 

Methought, as then he stood to trace 
The withered stems, there stole a tear, 

That I could read in his sad face — 
Brothers ! our sorrows make us near. 

And then he stretched him all along, 
And laid his head upon my breast. 

Listening the water's peaceful song: 
How glad was I to tend his rest ! 

Then happier grew his soothed soul; 

He turned and watched the sunlight 
play 
Upon my face, as in it stole. 

Whispering, " Above is brighter day ! " 

He praised my varied hues, — the green, 
The silver hoar, the golden, brown; 

Said, Lovelier hues were never seen; 
Then gently pressed my tender down. 

And where I sent up little shoots, 

He called them trees, in fond conceit: 

Like silly lovers in their suits 

He talked, his care awhile to cheat. 



RICHARD HENRY DANA— SARAH JOSEPHA HALE 23 



I said, I 'd deck me in the dews, 
Could I but chase away his care, 

And clothe me in a thousand hues, 
To bring him joys that I might share. 

He answered, earth no blessing had 
To cure his lone and aching heart; 

That I was one, when he was sad, 
Oft stole him from his pain, in part. 

But e'en from thee, he said, I go 

To meet the world, its care and strife, 

No more to watch this quiet flow, 
Or spend with thee a gentle life. 



And yet the brook is gliding on, 
And I, without a care, at rest, 

While he to toiling life is gone; 

Nor finds his head a faithful breast. 

Deal gently with him, world ! I pray; 

Ye cares ! like softened shadows come; 
His spirit, well-nigh worn away. 

Asks with ye but awhile a home. 

O, may I live, and when he dies 

Be at his feet a humble sod ; 
O, may I lay me where he lies. 

To die when he awakes in God ! 



J>araiJ 3[Oj0fepp f$ait 



ALICE RAY 

The birds their love-notes warble 

Among the blossomed trees; 
The flowers are sighing forth their sweets 

To wooing honey-bees ; 
The glad brook o'er a pebbly floor 

Goes dancing on its way, — 
But not a thing is so like spring 

As happy Alice Ray. 

An only child was Alice, 

And, like the blest above. 
The gentle maid had ever breathed 

An atmosphere of love; 
Her father's smile like sunshine came, 

Like dew her mother's kiss ; 
Their love and goodness made her home. 

Like heaven, the place of bliss. 

Beneath such tender training, 

The joyous child had sprung, 
Like one bright flower, in wild-wood bower, 

And gladness round her flung; 
And all who met her blessed her, 

And turned again to pray 
That grief and care might ever spare 

The happy Alice Ray. 

The gift that made her charming 

Was not from Venus caught; 
Nor was it, Pallas-like, derived 

From majesty of thought; 
Her heathf ul cheek was tinged with brown, 

Her hair without a curl — 



But then her eyes were love-lit stars, 
Her teeth as pure as pearl. 

And when in merry laughter 

Her sweet, clear voice was heard. 
It welled from out her happy heart 

Like carol of a bird; 
And all who heard were moved to 
smiles. 

As at some mirthful lay. 
And to the stranger's look replied, 

" 'T is that dear Alice Ray." 

And so she came, like sunbeams 

That bring the April green; 
As type of nature's royalty. 

They called her " Woodburn's queen ! " 
A sweet, heart-lifting cheerfulness, 

Like spring-time of the year, 
Seemed ever on her steps to wait, — 

No wonder she was dear. 

Her world was ever joyous — 

She thought of grief and pain 
As giants in the olden time. 

That ne'er would come again; 
The seasons all had charms for her, 

She welcomed each with joy, — 
The charm that in her spirit lived 

No changes could destroy. 

Her heart was like a fountain, 

The waters always sweet, — 
Her pony in the pasture. 

The kitten at her feet. 



24 



EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION 



The ruffling bird of Juno, and 
The wren in the old wall, 

Each knew her loving carefulness, 
And came at her soft call. 

Her love made all things lovely, 
For in the heart must live 

The feeling that imparts the charm, 
We gain by what we give. 



THE WATCHER 

The night was dark and fearful, 

The blast swept wailing by; 
A watcher, pale and tearful, 

Looked forth with anxious eye: 
How wistfully she gazes — 

No gleam of morn is there ! 
And then her heart upraises 

Its agony of prayer. 

Within that dwelling lonely, 

Where want and darkness reign, 



Her precious child, her only. 

Lay moaning in his pain; 
And death alone can free him — 

She feels that this must be: 
" But oh ! for morn to see him 

Smile once again on me ! " 

A hundred lights are glancing 

In yonder mansion fair, 
And merry feet are dancing — 

They heed not morning there: 
Oh, young and lovely creatures, 

One lamp, from out your store. 
Would give that poor boy's features 

To her fond gaze once more ! 

The morning sun is shining — 

She heedeth not its ray; 
Beside her dead reclining, 

That pale, dead mother lay ! 
A smile her lip was wreathing, 

A smile of hope and love, 
As though she still were breathing — 

" There 's light for us above ! " 



3iamejer ^llftrafjam J^iHfjoujefe* 



THE DEMON-LOVER 

FROM " HADAD " 

Scene. — The terraced roof of Absalom's 
house, by night ; adorned with vases of flow- 
ers, and fragrant shrubs ; an awning spread 
over part of it. Tamak and Hadad. 

Tarn. No, no, I well remember — proofs, 
you said. 
Unknown to Moses. 

Had. Well, my love, thou knowest 

I 've been a traveller in various climes ; 
Trod Ethiopia's scorching sands, and scaled 
The snow-clad mountains; trusted to the 

deep ; 
Traversed the fragrant islands of the sea, 
And with the Wise conversed of many 
nations. 
7'awi. I know thou hast. 
Had. Of all mine eyes have seen, 

The greatest, wisest, and most wonderful. 
Is that . dread sage, the Ancient of the 
Mountain. 



Tarn. Who? 

Had. None knows his lineage, age, or 
name: his locks 
Are like the snows of Caucasus; his eyes 
Beam with the wisdom of collected ages. 
In green, unbroken years, he sees, 't is said. 
The generations pass, like autumn fruits, 
Garnered, consumed, and springing fresh to 

life, 
Again to perish, while he views the sun. 
The seasons roll, in rapt serenity. 
And high communion with celestial powers. 
Some say 't is Shem, our father, some say 

Enoch, 
And some Melchizedek. 

Tarn. I 've heard a tale 

Like this, but ne'er believed it. 

Had. I have proved it. — 

Through perils dire, dangers most immi- 
nent. 
Seven days and nights 'midst rocks and 

wildernesses, 
And boreal snows, and never-thawing ice. 
Where not a bird, a beast, a living thing. 



1 See BioGEAPHicAL Note, p. 729. 



JAMES ABRAHAM HILLHOUSE 



25 



Save the far-soaring vulture comes, I dared 
My desperate way, resolved to know, or 

perish. 
Tam, Rash, rash adventurer ! 
Had. On the highest peak 

Of stormy Caucasus, there blooms a spot 
On which perpetual sunbeams play, where 

flowers 
And verdure never die; and there he dwells. 
Tam. But didst thou see him ? 
Had. Never did I view 

Such awful majesty: his reverend locks 
Hung like a silver mantle to his feet, 
His raiment glistered saintly white, his 

brow 
Rose like the gate of Paradise, his mouth 
Was musical as its bright guardians' songs. 
Tam. What did he tell thee? Oh! 

what wisdom fell 
From lips so hallowed ? 

Had. Whether he possess 

The Tetragrammaton, — the powerful 

Name 
Inscribed on Moses' rod, by which he 

wrought 
Unheard of wonders, which constrains the 

Heavens 
To part with blessings, shakes the earth, and 

rules 
The strongest Spirits; or if God hath given 
A delegated power, I cannot tell. 
But 't was from him I learned their fate, 

their fall, 
Who, erewhile, wore resplendent crowns in 

Heaven ; 
Now, scattered through the earth, the air, 

the sea. 
Them he compels to answer, and from them 
Has drawn what Moses, nor no mortal ear. 
Has ever heard. 

Tam. But did he tell it thee ? 

Had. He told me much, — more than I 

dare reveal; 
For with a dreadful oath he sealed my lips. 
Tam. But canst thou tell me nothing ? 

— Why unfold 
So much, if I must hear no more ? 

Had. You bade 

Explain my words, almost reproached me, 

sweet. 
For what by accident escaped me. 

Tam. Ah ! 

A little — something tell me, — sure, not 

all 
Were words inhibited. 



Had. Then, promise never, 

Never to utter of this conference 
A breath to mortal. 

Tam. Solemnly I vow. 

Had. Even then, 't is little I can say, 
compared 
With all the marvels he related. 

Tam. Come, 

I 'm breathless. — Tell me how they sinn'd, 
how fell. 
Had. Their Prince involved them in his 

ruin. 
Tam. What black offence on his devoted 
head 
Drew such dire punishment ? 

Had. The wish to be 

As the All-Perfect. 

Tam. Arrogating that 

Peculiar to his Maker ! — awful crime ! 
But what their doom ? their place of pun- 
ishment ? 
Had. Above, about, beneath ; earth, sea, 
and air; 
Their habitations various as their minds. 
Employments, and desires. 

Tam. But are they round us, Hadad ? 
— not confined 
In penal chains and darkness ? 

Had. So he said; 

And so your holy books infer. What saith 
Your Prophet ? what the Prince of Uz ? 

Tam. I shudder, 

Lest some dark Minister be near us now. 
Had. You wrong them. They are bright 
Intelligences, 
Robbed of some native splendor, and cast 

down, 
'Tis true, from Heaven; but not deformed, 

and foul. 
Revengeful, malice-working Fiends, as 

fools 
Suppose. They dwell, like Princes, in the 

clouds ; 
Sun their bright pinions in the middle sky; 
Or arch their palaces beneath the hills. 
With stones inestimable studded so. 
That sun or stars were useless there. 

Tam. Good heavens ! 

Had. He bade me look on rugged Cau- 
casus, 
Crag piled on crag beyond the utmost ken 
Naked, and wild, as if creation's ruins 
Were heaped in one immeasurable chain 
Of barren mountains, beaten by the storms 
Of everlasting winter. But within 



26 



EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION 



Are glorious palaces, and domes of light, 
Irradiate halls, and crystal colonnades, 
Blazing with lustre past the noontide beam, 
Or, with a milder beauty, mimicking 
The mystic signs of changeful Mazzaroth. 
Tarn. Unheard of wonders ! 
Had. There they dwell, and muse, 

And wander; Beings beautiful, immortal, 
Minds vast as heaven, capacious as the sky; 
Whose thoughts connect past, present, and 

to come. 
And glow with light intense, imperishable. 
So in the sparry chambers of the Sea 
And Air-Pavilions, upper Tabernacles, 
They study Nature's secrets, and enjoy 
No poor dominion. 

Tarn. Are they beautiful, 

And powerful far beyond the human race ? 

Had. Man's feeble heart cannot conceive 

it. When 

The Sage described them, fiery eloquence 

Broke from his lips, his bosom heaved, his 

eyes 
Grew bright and mystical; moved by the 

theme. 
Like one who feels a deity within. 

Tarn. Wondrous ! — What intercourse 

have they with men ? 
Had. Sometimes they deign to intermix 
with man. 
But oft with woman. 

Tarn. Ha ! with woman ? 

Had. She 

Attracts them with her gentler virtues, 

soft. 
And beautiful, and heavenly, like them- 
selves. 
They have been known to love her with a 

passion 
Stronger than human. 

Tarn. That surpasses all 

You yet have told me. 

Had. This the Sage affirms; 

And Moses, darkly. 

Tarn. How do they appear ? — 

How love ? — 

Had. Sometimes 't is spiritual, signified 
By beatific dreams, or more distinct 
And glorious apparition. — They Jiave 

stooped 
To animate a human form, and love 
Like mortals. 

Tarn. Frightful to be so beloved ! — 
Frightful ! who could endure the horrid 
thought ? 



Had. \_After a pause.'] But why contemn 
a Spirit's love ? so high. 
So glorious, if he haply deigned ? — 

Tarn. Forswear 

My Maker ! love a Demon ! 

Had. No — Oh, no, ' — 

My thoughts but wandered — Oft, alas ! 
they wander. 
Tarn. Why dost thou speak so sadly 
now ? — And lo ! 
Thine eyes are fixed again upon Arcturus. 
Thus ever, when thy drooping spirits ebb. 
Thou gazest on that star. Hath it the 

power 
To cause or cure thy melancholy 
mood ? — 

[fie appears lost in thought. 
Tell me, — ascrib'st thou influence to the 
stars ? 
Had. [Starting.'] The stars ! — What 

know'st thou of the stars ? 
Tarn. I know that they were made to 

rule the night. 
Had. Like palace lamps ! Thou echoest 
well thy grandsire ! — 
Woman ! The stars are living, glorious, 
Amazing, infinite ! — 

Tarn. Speak not so wildly. 

I know them numberless, resplendent, set 
As symbols of the countless, countless years 
That make eternity. 

Had. Thou speak'st the word — 

O, had ye proved — like those Great Suf- 
ferers, — 
Shot, once for all, the gulf, — felt myriad 

ages 
Only the prelude, — could ye scan the void 
With eyes as searching as its torments, — 
Then — then — mightst thou pronounce it 
feelingly ! 
Tarn. What ails thee, Hadad? — Draw 

me not so close. 
Had. Tamar ! I need thy love — more 

than thy love — 
Tarn. Thy cheek is wet with tears — 
Nay, let us part — 
'T is late. I cannot, must not linger. — 

[Breaks from him, and exit. 
Had. Loved and abhorred ! — Still, still 
accursed ! — 
[He paces, twice or thrice, up and down with 
passionate gestures; then turns his face to 
the sky, and stands a moment in silence. 
O ! where. 
In the illimitable space, in what 



HILLHOUSE — WILDE 



27 



Profound of untried misery, when all 

His worlds, his rolling orbs of light, that fill 

With life and beauty yonder infinite, 



Their radiant journey run, forever set, 
Where, where, in what abyss shall I be 
groaning ? [^Exit. 



lUicfjarD l^cnrp Wiitit 



STANZAS 

My life is like the summer rose, 

That opens to the morning sky. 
But, ere the shades of evening close, 

Is scattered on the ground — to die ! 
Yet on the rose's humble bed 
The sweetest dews of night are shed, 
As if she wept the waste to see — 
But none shall weep a tear for me ! 

My life is like the autumn leaf 

That trembles in the moon's pale ray: 
Its hold is frail — its date is brief, 

Restless — and soon to pass away ! 
Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade. 
The parent tree will mourn its shade, 
The winds bewail the leafless tree — 
But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 

My life is like the prints, which feet 

Have left on Tampa's desert strand; 
Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 

All trace will vanish from the sand ; 
Yet, as if grieving to efface 
All vestige of the human race. 
On that lone shore loud moans the sea - 
But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 



A FAREWELL TO AMERICA 

Farewell, my more than fatherland ! 

Home of my heart and friends, adieu ! 
Lingering beside some foreign strand. 

How oft shall I remember you ! 

How often, o'er the waters blue. 
Send back a sigh to those I leave, 

The loving and beloved few. 
Who grieve for me, — for whom I grieve ! 

We part ! — no matter how we part, 
There are some thoughts we utter not, 

Deep treasured in our inmost heart. 
Never revealed, and ne'er forgot I 



Why murmur at the common lot ? 
We part ! — I speak not of the pain, — 

But when shall I each lovely spot 
And each loved face behold again ? 

It must be months, — it may be years, — 
It may — but no ! — I will not fill 

Fond hearts with gloom, — fond eyes with 
tears, 
" Curious to shape uncertain ill." 
Though humble, — few and far, — yet, 
still 

Those hearts and eyes are ever dear; 
Theirs is the love no time can chill, 

The truth no chance or change can sear ! 

All I have seen, and all I see. 

Only endears them more and more; 
Friends cool, hopes fade, and hours flee, 

Affection lives when all is o'er ! 

Farewell, my more than native shore ! 
I do not seek or hope to find, 

Roam where I will, what I deplore 
To leave with them and thee behind ! 



TO THE MOCKING-BIRD 

Winged mimic of the woods ! thou motley 

fool! 
Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe ? 
Thine ever ready notes of ridicule 
Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe. 
Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe, 
Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school, 
To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe, 
Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule ! 
For such thou art by day — but all night 

long 
Thou pourest a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn 

strain. 
As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song 
Like to the melancholy Jacques complain. 
Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong. 
And sighing for thy motley coat again. 



28 



EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION 



annitional ^tltttiom 



(CHOSEN FROM AMERICAN VERSE OF THE TIME) 



ON SNOW-FLAKES MELTING ON 
HIS LADY'S BREAST 

To kiss my Celia's fairer breast, 
The snow forsakes its native skies, 

But proving an unwelcome guest. 

It grieves, dissolves in tears, and dies. 

Its touch, like mine, but serves to wake 
Through all her frame a death-like 
chill, — 

Its tears, like those I shed, to make 
That icy bosom colder stiU. 

I blame her not; from Celia's eyes 

A common fate beholders proved — 
Each swain, each fair one, weeps and 
dies, — 
With envy these, and those with love ! 

William Martin Johnson 



ON THE DEATH OF MY SON 
CHARLES 

My son, thou wast my heart's delight. 
Thy morn of life was gay and cheery ; 

That morn has rushed to sudden night, 
Thy father's house is sad and dreary. 

I held thee on my knee, my son ! 

And kissed thee laughing, kissed thee 
weeping; 
But ah ! thy little day is done. 

Thou 'rt with thy angel sister sleeping. 

The staff, on which my years should lean. 
Is broken, ere those years come o'er 
me; 

My funeral rites thou shouldst have seen, 
But thou art in the tomb before me. 

Thou rear'st to me no j&lial stone. 
No parent's grave with tears beholdest; 



Thou art my ancestor, my son ! 

And stand'st in Heaven's account the 
oldest. 

On earth my lot was soonest cast, 

Thy generation after mine, 
Thou hast thy predecessor past; 

Earlier eternity is thine. 

I should have set before thine eyes 

The road to Heaven, and showed it 
clear; 

But thou untaught spring'st to the skies. 
And leav'st thy teacher lingering here. 

Sweet Seraph, I would learn of thee, 
And hasten to partake thy bliss ! 

And oh ! to thy world welcome me, 
As first I welcomed thee to this. 

Dear Angel, thou art safe in heaven; 

No prayers for thee need more be 
made; 
Oh ! let thy prayers for those be given 

Who oft have blessed thy infant head. 

My father ! I beheld thee born. 

And led thy tottering steps with care; 

Before me risen to Heaven's bright morn, 
My son ! my father ! guide me there. 

Daniel Webster 



PRIVATE DEVOTION 

I LOVE to steal awhile away 
From every cumbering care, 

And spend the hours of setting day 
In humble, grateful prayer. 

I love, in solitude, to shed 

The penitential tear; 
And all His promises to plead, 

When none but God can hear. 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



29 



I love to think on mercies past, 

And future good implore; 
And all my cares and sorrows cast 

On Him whom I adore. 

I love, by faith, to take a view 
Of brighter scenes in heaven; 

The prospect doth my strength renew, 
While here by tempests driven. 

Thus, when life's toilsome day is o'er, 

May its departing ray 
Be calm as this impressive hour, 

And lead to endless day. 

Phoebe Hinsdale Brown 



HYMN 



FOR THE DEDICATION 
OF A CHURCH 



Where ancient forests round us spread, 
Where bends the cataract's ocean-fall. 

On the lone mountain's silent head, 
There are thy temples, God of all ! 

Beneath the dark-blue, midnight arch. 
Whence nayriad suns pour down their 
rays. 

Where planets trace their ceaseless march, 
Father ! we worship as we gaze. 

The tombs thine altars are ; for there, 
When earthly loves and hopes have 
fled, 

To thee ascends the spirit's prayer. 
Thou God of the immortal dead. 

All space is holy; for all space 

Is filled by thee; but human thought 

Burns clearer in some chosen place. 

Where thy own words of love are 
taught. 

Here be they taught; and may we know 
That faith thy servants knew of old; 

Which onward bears through weal and 
woe. 
Till Death the gates of heaven unfold ! 

Nor we alone; may those whose brow 
Shows yet no trace of human cares. 

Hereafter stand where we do now. 
And raise to thee still holier prayers ! 

Andrews Norton 



ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF 
THE DEEP 

Rocked in the cradle of the deep 
I lay me down in peace to sleep; 
Secure I rest upon the wave, 
For thou, O Lord ! hast power to save. 
I know thou wilt not slight mj call, 
For Thou dost mark the sparrow's fall; 
And calm a,nd peaceful shall I sleep. 
Rocked in the cradle of the deep. 

When in the dead of night I lie 
And gaze upon the trackless sky. 
The star-bespangled heavenly scroll, 
The boundless waters as they roll, — 
I feel thy wondrous power to save 
From perils of the stormy wave : 
Rocked in the cradle of the deep, 
I calmly rest and soundly sleep. 

And such the trust that still were mine, 
Though stormy winds swept o'er the brine. 
Or though the tempest's fiery breath 
Roused me from sleep to wreck and death. 
In ocean cave, still safe with Thee 
The germ of immortality ! 
And calm and peaceful shall I sleep. 
Rocked in the cradle of the deep. 

Emma Hart Willard 



THE SOUL'S DEFIANCE 

I SAID to Sorrow's awful storm. 

That beat against my breast. 
Rage on — thou may'st destroy this form. 

And lay it low at rest; 
But still the spirit that now brooks 

Thy tempest, raging high, 
Undaunted on its fury looks 

With steadfast eye. 

I said to Penury's meagre train. 

Come on — your threats I brave; 
My last poor life-drop you may drain, 

And crush me to the grave; 
Yet still the spirit that endures 

Shall mock your force the while, 
And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours 

With bitter smile. 

I said to cold Neglect and Scorn, 
Pass on — I heed you not; 



3° 



•EARLY YEARS OF THE NATION 



Ye may pursue me till my form 

And being are forgot; 
Yet still the spirit, which you see 

Undaunted by your wiles, 
Draws from its own nobility 

Its high-born smiles. 

I said to Friendship's menaced blow, 

Strike deep — my heart shall bear; 
Thou' canst but add one bitter woe 

To those already there; 
Yet still the spirit that sustains 

This last severe distress 
Shall smile upon its keenest pains, 

And scorn redress. 

I said to Death's uplifted dart, 

Aim sure — oh, why delay ? 
Thou wilt not find a fearful heart — 

A weak, reluctant prey ; 
For still the spirit, firm and free, 

Unruffled by this last dismay, 
Wrapt in its own eternity, 

Shall pass away. 

Lavinia Stoddard 



A NAME IN THE SAND 

Alone I walked the ocean strand ; 
A pearly shell was in my hand : 
I stooped and wrote upon the sand 

My name — the year — the day. 
As onward from the spot I passed. 
One lingering look behind I cast; 
A wave came rolling high and fast. 

And washed my lines away. 

And so, methought, 't will shortly be 
With every mark on earth from me : 
A wave of dark oblivion's sea 
Will sweep across the place 
Where I have trod the sandy shore 
Of time, and been, to be no more, 



Of me — my day — the name I bore, 
To leave nor track nor trace. 

And yet, with Him who counts the sands 
And holds the waters in his hands, 
I know a lasting record stands 

Inscribed against my name. 
Of all this mortal part has wrought, 
Of all this thinking soul has thought. 
And from these fleeting moments caught 

For glory or for shame. 

Hannah Fl^gg Gould 



MY BRIGANTINEi 

My brigantine ! 
Just in thy mould and beauteous in thy 

form, 
Gentle in roll and buoyant on the surge, 
Light as the sea-fowl rocking in the storm. 
In breeze and gale thy onward course we 
urge. 

My water-queen ! 

Lady of mine ! 
More light and swift than thou none thread 

the sea. 
With surer keel or steadier on its path; 
We brave each waste of ocean-mystery 
And laugh to hear the howling tempest's 
wrath. 

For we are thine ! 

My brigantine ! 
Trust to the mystic power that points thy 

way. 
Trust to the eye that pierces from afar. 
Trust the red meteors that around thee 

play. 
And, fearless, trust the Sea-Green Lady's 
Star, 
Thou bark divine ! 

James Fenimore Cooper 



1 See BiOGEAPHicAL Note, p. 787. 



II 
FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD 

(IN THREE DIVISIONS) 

FROM THE OUTSET OF PIERPONT, BRYANT, AND THEIR ASSOCIATES, TO THE 
INTERVAL OF THE CIVIL WAR 

1816-1860 



/ 

Pierponfs " Airs of Palestine " : Baltimore, 1816 

Bryant's "Thanatopsis'" : North Amer, Review, Sept. i8iy ; "Poems " ("TAe Ages" 

etc.) : Cambridge, 18 21 
Halleck and Drake's " The Croakers " ; N. Y. Evening Post, i8ig 
Mrs. Brooks's "ytidith," etc.: Bostojt, 1820 ; " Zophiel" : London, 1833 
Pinkney's " Poems " ; Baltimore, 182^ 



Em,er son's "Nature" : Boston, i8j6 ; "Poems'" : Boston, 1846 

Whittier's " Mogg Megone " ; Bostoft, i8j6 ; " Poems " : Philadelphia, 1838 

Longjeclow' s " Voices of the Night " ; Cambridge, i8jg 

Poe's " Tamerlane," etc. : Boston, 182'j ; " Al Aaraaf" etc. : Baltimore, iSzg 

Holmes's " Poems " : Bostott, i8j6 

3 

Lowell's " A Year's Life " ; Boston, 1841 ; " Poems " ; Boston, 1844 

Mrs. Howe's " Passion Flowers " : Boston, 18^4 

WJiitman's " Leaves of Grass " : Brooklyn, i8jj 

Baker's " Calaynos, A Tragedy " ; Philadelphia, 1848 

Taylor's " Ximena" : Philadelphia, 1844; "Rhymes of Travel" : New York, i84g 

Stoddard's " Poems " : Boston, j8j2 ; " Songs of Summer " : Boston, i8j6 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD 

(IN THREE DIVISIONS) 

DIVISION I 

(PIERPONT, HALLECK, BRYANT, DRAKE, MRS. BROOKS, AND OTHERS) 



Slojjn ^itt^ont 



THE FUGITIVE SLAVE'S APO- 
STROPHE TO THE NORTH STAR 

Star of the North ! though night winds 
drift 
The fleecy drapery of the sky 
Between thy lamp and me, I lift, 

Yea, lift with hope, my sleepless eye 
To the blue heights wherein thou dwell- 

est, 
And of a land of freedom tellest. 

Star of the North ! while blazing day 
Pours round me its full tide of light, 

And hides thy pale but faithful ray, 
I, too, lie hid, and long for night : 

For night ; — I dare not walk at noon, 

Nor dare I trust the faithless moon, — 

Nor faithless man, whose burning lust 
For gold hath riveted my chain; 

Nor other leader can I trust, 

But thee, of even the starry train; 

For, all the host aroiind thee burning, 

Like faithless man, keep turning, turning. 

I may not follow where they go: 
Star of the North, I look to thee 

While on I press; for well I know 

Thy light and truth shall set me free ; — 

Thy light, that no poor slave deceiveth; 

Thy truth, that all my soul believeth. 

They of the East beheld the star 

That over Bethlehem's manger glowed; 

With joy they hailed it from afar, 

And followed where it marked the road. 



Till, where its rays directly fell, 
They found the Hope of Israel. 

Wise were the men who followed thus 
The star that sets man free from sin ? 

Star of the North ! thou art to us, — 
Who 're slaves because we wear a skin 

Dark as is night's protecting wing, — 

Thou art to us a holy thing. 

And we are wise to follow thee ! 

I trust thy steady light alone: 
Star of the North ! thou seem'st to me 

To burn before the Almighty's throne. 
To guide me, through these forests dim 
And vast, to liberty and Him. 

Thy beam is on the glassy breast 

Of the still spring', upon whose brink 

I lay my weary limbs to rest, 

And bow my parching lips to drink. 

Guide of the friendless negro's way, 

I bless thee for this quiet ray ! 

In the dark top of southern pines 
I nestled, when the driver's horn 

Called to the field, in lengthening lines. 
My fellows at the break of morn. 

And there I lay, till thy sweet face 

Looked in upon " my hiding-place." 

The tangled cane-brake, — where I crept 
For shelter from the heat of noon. 

And where, while others toiled, I slept 
Till wakened by the rising moon, — 

As its stalks felt the night wind free. 

Gave me to catch a glimpse of thee. 



34 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Star of the North ! in bright array 
The constellations round thee sweep, 

Each holding on its nightly way, 
Rising, or sinking in the deep. 

And, as it hangs in mid-heaven flaming. 

The homage of some nation claiming. 

This nation to the Eagle cowers; 

Fit ensign ! she 's a bird of spoil; 
Like worships like ! for each devours 

The earnings of another's toil. 
I 've felt her talons and her beak, 
And now the gentler Lion seek. 

The Lion at the Virgin's feet 

Crouches, and lays his mighty paw 

Into her lap ! — an emblem meet 

Of England's Queen and English law: - 

Queen, that hath made her Islands free ! 

Law, that holds out its shield to me ! 

Star of the North ! upon that shield 
Thou shinest ! — : O, forever shine ! 

The negro from the cotton-field 
Shall then beneath its orb recline, 

And feed the Lion couched before it. 

Nor heed the Eagle screaming o'er it ! 



WARREN'S ADDRESS TO THE 
AMERICAN SOLDIERS 

Stand ! the ground 's your own, my braves ! 
Will ye give it up to slaves ? 
Will ye look for greener graves ? 

Hope ye mercy still ? 
What 's the mercy despots feel ? 
Hear it in that battle-peal ! 
Read it on yon bristling steel 1 

Ask it, — ye who will. 

Fear ye foes who kill for hire ? 
Will ye to your homes retire ? 
Look behind you ! they 're a-fire ! 

And, before you, see 
Who have done it ! — From the vale 
On they come ! — And will ye quail ? — 
Leaden rain and iron hail 

Let their welcome be ! 

In the God of battles trust ! 
Die we may, — and die we must; 
But, O, where can dust to dust 
Be consigned so well. 



As where Heaven its dews shall shed 
On the martyred patriot's bed. 
And the rocks shall raise their head, 
Of his deeds to tell ! 



THE BALLOT 

A WEAPON that comes down as still 
As snowflakes fall upon the sod ; 

But executes a freeman's will. 
As lightning does the will of God, 



THE EXILE AT REST 

His falchion flashed along the Nile ; 

His hosts he led through Alpine snows ; 
O'er Moscow's towers,. that shook the while, 

His eagle flag unrolled, — and froze. 

Here sleeps he now, alone ; — not one 
Of all the kings whose crowns he gave, 

Nor sire, nor brother, wife, nor son. 
Hath ever seen or sought his grave. 

Here sleeps he now, alone ; — the star. 
That led him on from crown to crown, 

Hath sunk; — the nations from afar 
Gazed, as it faded and went down. 

He sleeps alone ; — the mountain cloud 
That night hangs round him, and the 
breath 

Of morning scatters, is the shroud 
That wraps his martial form in death. 



High is his couch ; — the ocean flood 
Far, far below by storms is curled. 

As round him heaved, while high 
stood, 
A stormy and inconstant world. 



he 



Hark ! Comes there from the Pyramids, 
And from Siberia's waste of snow, 

And Europe's fields, a voice that bids 
The world be awed to mourn him ? — 
No; — 

The only, the perpetual dirge, 

That 's heard here, is the sea-bird's cry. 
The mournful murmur of the surge, 

The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low 
sigh. 



JOHN PIERPONT 



THE PILGRIM FATHERS 

The Pilgrim Fathers, — where are they ? 

The waves that brought them o'er 
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray 

As they break along the shore ; 
Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day 

When the Mayflower moored below, 
When the sea around was black with 
storms, 

And white the shore with snow. 

The mists that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep 

Still brood upon the tide; 
And his rocks yet keep their watch by the 
deep 
To stay its waves of pride. 
But the snow-white sail that he gave to the 
gale. 
When the heavens looked dark, is 
gone,— 
As an angel's wing through an opening 
cloud 
Is seen, and then withdrawn. 

The pilgrim exile, — sainted name ! 

The hill whose icy brow 
Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's 
flame. 

In the morning's flame burns now. 
And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night 

On the hillside and the sea. 
Still lies where he laid his houseless head, — 

But the Pilgrim ! where is he ? 

The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest: 

When summer 's throned on high. 
And the world's warm breast is in verdure 
drest. 

Go, stand on the hill where they lie. 
The earliest ray of the golden day 

On that hallowed spot is cast; 
And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, 

Looks kindly on that spot last. 

The Pilgrim spirit has not fled: 

It walks in noon's broad light; 
And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, 

With the holy stars by night. 
It watches the bed of the brave who have 
bled. 

And still guard this ice-bound shore, 
Till the waves of the bay, where the May- 
flower lay. 

Shall foam and freeze no more. 



MY CHILD 

I CANNOT make him dead ! 

His fair sunshiny head 
Is ever bounding round my study-chair; 

Yet, when my eyes, now dim 

With tears, I turn to him. 
The vision vanishes — he is not there ! 

I walk my parlor floor, 

And through the open door 
I hear a footfall on the chamber stair; 

I 'm stepping toward the hall 

To give the boy a call; 
And then bethink me that — he is not 
there ! 

I thread the crowded street; 

A satehelled lad I meet. 
With the same beaming eyes and colored 
hair: 

And, as he 's running by. 

Follow him with my eye. 
Scarcely believing that — he is not there ! 

I know his face is hid 
Under the coffin-lid ; 
Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead 
fair; 
My hand that marble felt; 
O'er it in prayer I knelt; 
Yet my heart whispers that — he is not 
there ! 

I cannot make him dead ! 

When passing by the bed. 
So long watched over with parental care, 

My spirit and my eye 

Seek it inquiringly. 
Before the thought comes that — he is not 
there ! 

When, at the cool, gray break 
Of day, from sleep I wake, 
With my first breathing of the morning 
air 
My soul goes up, with joy. 
To Him who gave my boy. 
Then comes the sad thought that — he is 
not there ! 

When at the day's calm close, 
Before we seek repose, 
I 'm with his mother, offering up our 
prayer, 



'!6 



FURST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Whate'er I may be saying, 
I am, iu spirit, praying 
For our boy's spirit, though — he is not there ! 

Not there ! Where, then, is he ? 

The form I used to see 
Was but the raiment that he used to wear; 

The grave, that now doth press 

Upon that cast-ofP dress, 
Is but his wardrobe locked; — he is not there ! 

He lives ! In all the past 
He lives; nor, to the last, 



Of seeing him again will I despair; 

In dreams I see him now; 

And, on his angel brow, 
I see it written, " Thou shalt see me 
there ! " 

Yes, we all live to God ! 

Father, thy chastening rod 
So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear. 

That, in the spirit-land. 

Meeting at thy right hand, 
'T wiU be our heaven to find that — he is 
there ! 



fit^^<^tm\t f$diikck 



MARCO BOZZARIS 

At midnight, in his guarded tent. 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent. 

Should tremble at his power: 
In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror; 

In dreams his song of triumph heard; 
Then wore his monarch's signet ring: 
Then pressed that monarch's throne — a 

king; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 

As Eden's garden bird. 

At midnight, in the forest shades, 

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, 
True as the steel of their tried blades. 

Heroes in heart and hand. 
There had the Persian's thousands stood, 
There had the glad earth drunk their 
blood 

On old Platfea's day; 
And now there breathed that haunted air 
The sons of sires who conquered there. 
With arm to strike and soul to dare, 

As quick, as far as they. 

An hour passed on — the Turk awoke ; 

That bright dream was his last; 
He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, 
" To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the 

Greek ! " 
He woke — to die midst flame, and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke. 

And death-shots falling thick and fast 



As lightnings from the ruountain-cloud ; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band: 
" Strike — till the last armed foe expires ; 
Strike — for your altars and your fires ; 
Strike — for the green graves of your sires ; 

God — and your native land ! " 

They fought — like brave men, long and 
well; 

They piled that ground with Moslem 
slain. 
They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile when rang their proud hurrah. 

And the red field was won ; 
Then saw in death his eyelids close 
Calmly, as to a night's repose. 

Like flowers at set of sun. 

Come to the bridal-chamber, Death ! 

Come to the mother's, when she feels, 
For the first time, her first-born's breath; 

Come when the blessed seals 
That close the pestilence are broke. 
And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 
Come in consumption's ghastly form. 
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm; 
Come when the heart beats high and 
warm 

With banquet-song, and dance, and wine; 
And thou art terrible — the tear. 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 

Of agony, are thine. 



FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 



37 



But to the hero, when his sword 

Has won the battle for the free, 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; 
And in its hollow tones are heard 

The thanks of millions yet to be. 
Come, when his task of fame is wrought — 
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought — 

Come in her crowning hour — and then 
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
To him is welcome as the sight 

Of sky and stars to prisoned men; 
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
Of brother in a foreign land ; 
Thy summons welcome as the cry 
That told the Indian isles were nigh 

To the world-seeking Genoese^^ 
When the land wind, from woods of 

palm. 
And orange-groves, and fields of balm, 

Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 

Bozzaris ! with the storied brave 

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
Rest thee — there is no prouder grave, 

Even in her own proud clime. 
She wore no funeral-weeds for thee, 
• Nor bade the dark hearse wave its 

plume 
Like torn branch from death's leafless 

tree 
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, 

The heartless luxury of the tomb; 
But she remembers thee as one 
Long loved and for a season gone ; 
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, 
Her marble wrought, her music breathed; 
For thee she rings the birthday bells; 
Of thee her babe's first lisping tells ; 
For thine her evening prayer is said 
At palace-couch and cottage-bed; 
Her soldier, closing with the foe. 
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; 
His plighted maiden, when she fears 
For him the joy of her young years, 
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears; 

And she, the mother of thy boys. 
Though in her eye and faded cheek 
Is read the grief she will not speak, 

The memory of her buried joys, 
And even she who gave thee birth. 
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, 

Talk of thy doom without a sigh; 
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's: 
One of the few, the immortal names, 

That were not born to die. 



ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH 
RODMAN DRAKE 

Green be the turf above thee. 

Friend of my better days ! 
None knew thee but to love thee. 

Nor named thee but to praise. 

Tears fell when thou wert dying, 
From eyes unused to weep. 

And long, where thou art lying. 
Will tears the cold turf steep. 

When hearts, whose truth was proven, 
Like thine, are laid in earth. 

There should a wreath be woven 
To tell the world their worth; 

And I who woke each morrow 
To clasp thy hand in mine. 

Who shared thy joy and sorrow. 
Whose weal and woe were thine; 

It should be mine to braid it 

Around thy faded brow. 
But I 've in vain essayed it, 

And feel I cannot now. 

While memory bids me weep thee, 
Nor thoughts nor words are free, — 

The grief is fixed too deeply 
That mourns a man like thee. 



ALNWICK CASTLE 

Home of the Percys' high-born race. 

Home of their beautiful and brave, 
Alike their birth and burial-place. 

Their cradle and their grave ! 
Still sternly o'er the castle gate 
Their house's Lion stands in state, 

As in his proud departed hours; 
And warriors frown in stone on high. 
And feudal banners flout the sky 

Above his princely towers. 

A gentle hill its side inclines. 

Lovely in England's fadeless green, 

To meet the quiet stream which winds 
Through this romantic scene 

As silently and sweetly still. 

As when at evening on that hill, 

While summer's wind blew soft and low, 

Seated by gallant Hotspur's side. 



38 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



His Katherine was a happy bride 
A thousand years ago. 

Gaze on the Abbey's ruined pile : 

Does not the succoring ivy, keeping 
Her watch around it, seem to smile, 

As o'er a loved one sleeping ? 
One solitary turret gray 

Still tells, in melancholy glory, 
The legend of the Cheviot day, 

The Percys' proudest border story. 
That day its roof was triumph's arch; 

Then rang from isle to pictured dome 
The light step of the soldier's march, 

The music of the trump and drum; 
And babe and sire, the old, the young. 
And the monk's hymn and minstrel's 

song, 
And woman's pure kiss, sweet and long. 

Welcomed her warrior home. 

Wild roses by the Abbey towers 

Are gay in their young bud and bloom ; 
They were born of a race of funeral-flowers 
That garlanded, in long-gone hours, 

A templar's knightly tomb. 
He died, the sword in his mailed hand. 
On the holiest spot of the Blessed land. 

Where the Cross was damped with his 
dying breath. 
When blood ran free as festal wine, 
Andxthe sainted air of Palestine 

Was thick with the darts of death. 



Wise wHth the lore of centuries, 

What tales, if there " be tongues in trees," 

Those giant oaks could tell, 
Of beings born and buried here; 
Tales of the peasant and the peer. 
Tales of the bridal and the bier, 

The welcome and farewell, 
Since on their boughs the startled bird 
First, in her twilight slumbers, heard 

The Norman's curfew-bell ! 

I wandered through the lofty halls 

Trod by the Percys of old fame, 
And traced upon the chapel walls 

Each high heroic name, — 
From him who once his standard set 
Where now, o'er mosque and minaret. 

Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons. 
To him who, when a younger son, 
Fought for King George at Lexington, 

A major of dragoons. 



That last half stanza — it has dashed 

From my warm lips the sparkling cup; 
The light that o'er my eyebeam flashed. 

The power that bore my spirit up 
Above this bank-note world — is gone; 
And Alnwick 's but a market town, 
And this, alas ! its market day, 
And beasts and borderers throng the way; 
Oxen and bleating lambs in lots, 
Northumbrian boors and plaided Scots, 

Men in the coal and cattle line; 
From Teviot's bard and hero land. 
From royal Berwick's beach of sand, 
From Wooller, Morpeth, Hexham, and 

Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 
• 
These are not the romantic times 
So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes, 

So dazzling to the dreaming boy: 
Ours are the days of fact, not fable, 
Of knights, but not of the round table, 

Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy: 
'T is what " our President " Monroe 

Has called " the era of good feeling ": 
The Highlander, the bitterest foe 
To modern laws, has felt their blow, 
Consented to be taxed, and vote, 
And put on pantaloons and coat, 

And leave off cattle-stealing: 
Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt, 
The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt, 

The Douglas in red herrings; 
And noble name and cultured land, 
Palace, and park, and vassal-band. 
Are powerless to the notes of hand 

Of Rothschild or the Barings. 

The age of bargaining, said Burke, 
Has come: to-day the turbaned Turk 
(Sleep, Richard of the lion heart ! 
Sleep on, nor from your cerements start) 

Is England's friend and fast ally; 
The Moslem tramples on the Greek, 

And on the Cross and altar-stone, 

And Christendom looks tamely on. 
And hears the Christian maiden shriek. 

And sees the Christian father die; 
And not a sabre-blow is given 
For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven. 

By Europe's craven chivalry. 

You '11 ask if yet the Percy lives 

In the armed pomp of feudal state ? 

The present representatives 

Of Hotspur and his " gentle Kate " 



FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 



39 



Are some half-dozen serving-men 
In the drab coat of William Penn; 

A chambermaid, whose lip and eye, 
And cheek, and brown hair, bright and 
curling. 

Spoke Nature's aristocracy; 
And one, half groom, half seneschal, 
Who bowed me through court, bower, and 

hall. 
From donjon-keep to turret wall, 
For ten-aud-sixpence sterling. 



BURNS 

TO A ROSE, BROUGHT FROM NEAR ALLO- 
WAY KIRK, IN AYRSHIRE, IN THE AU- 
TUMN OF 1822 

Wild Rose of AUoway ! my thanks ; 

Thou 'mindst me of that autumn noon 
When first we met upon " the banks 

And braes of bonny Doon." 

Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's bough, 
My sunny hour was glad and brief; 

We 've crossed the winter sea, and thou 
Art withered — flower and leaf. 

And will not thy death-doom be mine — 
The doom of all things wrought of clay — 

And withered my life's leaf like thine, 
Wild rose of AUoway ? 

Not so his menaory, — for his sake 
My bosom bore thee far and long. 

His — who a humbler flower could make 
Immortal as his song. 

The memory of Burns — a name 

That calls, when brimmed her festal cup, 

A nation's glory and her shame. 
In silent sadness up. 

A nation's glory — be the rest 

Forgot — she 's canonized his mind ; 

And it is joy to speak the best 
We may of human kind. 

I 've stood beside the cottage-bed 

Where the Bard-peasant first drew 
breath ; 

A straw-thatched roof above his head, 
A straw-wrought couch beneath. 



And I have stood beside the pile, 

His monument — that tells to Heaven 

The homage of earth's proudest isle 
To that Bard-peasant given ! 

Bid thy thoughts hover o'er that spot. 
Boy-minstrel, in thy dreaming hour; 

And know, however low his lot, 
A Poet's pride and power: 

The pride that lifted Burns from earth, 
The power that gave a child of song 

Ascendency o'er rank and birth. 
The rich, the brave, the strong; 

And if despondency weigh down 
Thy spirit's fluttering pinions then, 

Despair — thy name is written on 
Tiie roll of common men. 

There have been loftier themes than his. 
And longer scrolls, and louder lyres, 

And lays lit up with Poesy's 
Purer and holier fires: 

Yet read the names that know not death; 

Few nobler ones than Burns are there; 
And few have won a greener wreath 

Thau that which binds his hair. 

His is that language of the heart, 

In which the answering heart would 
speak, — 
Thought, word, that bids the warm tear 
start, 
Or the smile light the cheek; 

And his that music, to whose tone 

The common pulse of man keeps time. 

In cot or castle's mirth or moan, 
In cold or sunny clime. 

And who hath heard his song, nor knelt 
Before its spell with willing knee, 

And listened, and believed, and felt 
The Poet's mastery 

O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm, 
O'er the heart's sunshine and its showers. 

O'er Passion's moments bright and warm. 
O'er Reason's dark, cold hours; 

On fields where brave men " die or do," 
In halls where rings the banquet's mirth. 



40 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Where mourners weep, where lovers woo, 
From throne to cottage-hearth ? 

What sweet tears dim the eye unshed, 
What wild vows falter on the tongue, 

When " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," 
Or " Auld Lang Syne " is sung ! 

Pure hopes, that lift the soul above. 
Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise. 

And dreams of youth, and truth, and love, 
With " Logan's " banks and braes. 

And when he breathes his master-lay 
Of AUoway's witch-haunted wall. 

All passions in our frames of clay 
Come thronging at his call. 

Imagination's world of air, 

And our own world, its gloom and glee, 
Wit, pathos, poetry, are there, 

And death's sublimity. 

And Burns — though brief the race he ran, 
\ Though rough and dark the path he trod, 
\Lived — died — in form and soul a Man, 
■l The image of his God. 

Through care, and pain, and want, and woe, 
With wounds that only death could heal. 

Tortures — the poor alone can know, 
The proud alone can feel; 

He kept his honesty and truth, 
His independent tongue and pen, 

And moved, in manhood as in youth. 
Pride of his fellow-men. 

Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, 
A hate of tyrant and of knave, 

A love of right, a scorn of wrong. 
Of coward and of slave; 

A kind, true heart, a spirit high. 

That could not fear and would not bow, 

Were written in his manly eye 
And on his manly brow. 

Praise to the bard ! his words are driven. 
Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown, 

Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven. 
The birds of fame have flown. 

Praise to the man ! a nation stood 
Beside his coffin with wet eyes, 



Her brave, her beautiful, her good, 
As when a loved one dies. 

And still, as on his funeral-day. 

Men stand his cold earth-couch around, 

With the mute homage that we pay 
To consecrated ground. 

And consecrated ground it is. 

The last, the hallowed home of one 

Who lives upon all memories. 
Though with the buried gone. 

Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines. 
Shrines to no code nor creed confined — 

The Delphian vales, the Palestines, 
The Meccas of the mind. 

Sages with wisdom's garland wreathed, 
Crowned kings, and mitred priests of 
power. 
And warriors with their bright swords 
sheathed. 
The mightiest of the hour; 

And lowlier names, whose humble home 
Is lit by fortune's dimmer star. 

Are there — o'er wave and mountain come, 
From countries near and far; 

Pilgrims whose wandering feet have pressed 
The Switzer's snow, the Arab's sand. 

Or tr(jd the piled leaves of the West, 
My own green forest-land. 

All ask the cottage of his birth, 

Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung, 

And gather feelings not of earth 
His fields and streams among. 

They linger by the Doon's low trees, 
And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr, 

And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries ! 
The poet's tomb is there. 

But what to them the sculptor's art. 

His funeral columns, wreaths and urns ? 

Wear they not graven on the heart 
The name of Robert Burns ? 



RED JACKET 

Cooper, whose name is with his country's 
woven, 
First in her files, her Pioneek of mind — 



FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 



41 



A wanderer now in other climes, has proven 
His love for the young land he left be- 
hind; 

And throned her in the senate-hall of na- 
tions, 
Robed like the deluge rainbow, heaven- 
wrought; 
Magnificent as his own mind's creations. 
And beautiful as its green world of 
thought: 

And, faithful to the Act of Congress, quoted 
As law authority, it passed nem. con.. 

He writes that we are, as ourselves have 
voted. 
The most enlightened people ever known ; 

That all our week is happy as a Sunday 
In Paris, full of song, and dance, and 
laugh ; 
And that, from Orleans to the Bay of 
Fundy, 
There 's not a bailiff or an epitaph; 

And furthermore — in fifty years, or sooner, 

We shall export our poetry and wine ; 
And our brave fleet, eight frigates and a 
schooner, 
Will sweep the seas from Zembla to the 
Line. 

If he were with me, King of Tuscarora ! 

Gazing, as I, upon thy portrait now, 
In all its medalled, fringed, and beaded 
glory, 
Its eye's dark beauty, and its thoughtful 
brow — 

Its brow, half martial and half diplomatic, 
Its eye upsoaring like an eagle's wings — 

Well might he boast that we, the Demo- 
cratic, 
Outrival Europe, even in our kings ! 

For thou wast monarch born. Tradition's 

pages 

Tell not the planting of thy parent tree, 

But that the forest tribes have bent for 

ages 

To thee, and to thy sires, the subject knee. 

Thy name is princely — if no poet's magic 
Could make Red Jacket grace an Eng- 
lish rhyme. 



Though some one with a genius for the 
tragic 
Hath introduced it in a pantomime — 

Yet it is music in the language spoken 
Of thine own land, and on her herald-roll ; 

As bravely fought for, and as proud a token 
As Cceur de Lion's of a warrior's soul. 

Thy garb — though Austria's bosom-star 
would frighten 
That medal pale, as diamonds the dark 
mine, 
And George the Fourth wore, at his court 
at Brighton, 
A more becoming evening dress than 
thine ; 

Yet 't is a brave one, scorning wind and 
weather 
And fitted for thy couch, on field and 
flood. 
As Rob Roy's tartan for the Highland 
heather. 
Or forest green for England's Robin 
Hood. 

Is strength a monarch's merit, like a 
whaler's ? 
Thou art as tall, as sinewy, and as strong 
As earth's first kings — the Argo's gallant 
sailors. 
Heroes in history and gods in song. 

Is beauty ? — Thine has with thy youth de- 
parted ; 
But the love-legends of thy manhood's 
years. 
And she who perished, young and broken- 
hearted. 
Are — but I rhyme for smiles and not 
for tears. 

Is eloquence ? — Her spell is thine that 
reaches 
The heart, and makes the wisest head its 
sport ; 
And there 's one rare, strange virtue in thy 
speeches, 
The secret of their mastery — they are 
short. 

The monarch mind, the mystery of com- 
manding, 
The birth-hour gift, the art Napoleon, 



42 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Of winning, fettering, moulding, wielding, 
banding 
The hearts of millions till they move as 
one: 

Thou hast it. At thy bidding men have 
crowded 
The road to death as to a festival; 
And minstrels, at their sepulchres, have 
shrouded 
With banner-folds of glory the dark pall. 

Who will believe ? Not I — for in deceiving 
Lies the dear charm of life's delightful 
dream ; 
I cannot spare the luxury of believing 
That all things beautiful are what they 
seem; 

Who will believe that, with a smile whose 
blessing 
Would, like the Patriarch's, soothe a 
* dying hour, 

With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing. 
As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlit 
bower; 

With look like patient Job's eschewing evil ; 

With motions graceful as a bird's in air; 
Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil 

That e'er clinched fingers in a captive's 
hair ! 



That in thy breast there springs a poison 
fountain 
Deadlier than that where bathes the 
Upas-tree ; 
And in thy wrath a nursing cat-o'-moun- 
tain 
Is calm as her babe's sleep compared 
with thee ! 

And underneath that face, like summer 
ocean's. 
Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear, 
Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emo- 
tions, 
Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow — all 
save fear. 

Love — for thy land, as if she were thy 
daughter, 
Her pipe in peace, her tomahawk in 
wars; 
Hatred — of missionaries and cold water; 
Pride — in thy rifle-trophies and thy 
scars ; 

Hope — that thy wrongs may be by the 
Great Spirit 
Remembered and revenged when thou 
art gone; 
Sorrow — that none are left thee to inherit 
Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and 
thy throne ! 



5|0^cp{) 0otim0n SOrafee 



FROM "THE CULPRIT FAY" 

THE fay's sentence 

The monarch sat on his judgment-seat. 

On his brow the crown imperial shone. 
The prisoner Fay was at his feet. 

And his peers were ranged around the 
throne. 
He waved his sceptre in the air ; 

He looked around and calmly spoke; 
His brow was grave and his eye severe, 

But his voice in a softened accent 
broke : 

" Fairy ! Fairy ! list and mark, 
Thou hast broke thine elfin chain, 



Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and 

dark. 
And thy wings are dyed with a deadly 

stain — 
Thou hast sullied thine elfin purity 
In the glance of a mortal maiden's eye, 
Thou hast scorned our dread decree, 
And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high, 
But well I know her sinless mind 
Is pure as the angel forms above, 
Gentle and meek, and chaste and kind, 
Such as a spirit well might love; 
Fairy ! had she spot or taint. 
Bitter had been thy jiunishment. 
Tied to the hornet's shardy wings; 
Tossed on the pricks of nettle's stings; 
Or seven Ions: ages doomed to dwell 



JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 



43 



With the lazy worm in the wahiut-shell; 
Or every night to writhe and bleed 
Beneath the tread of the centipede; 
Or bound in a cobweb dungeon dim, 
Your jailer a spider huge and grim, 
Amid the carrion bodies to lie, 
Of the worm, and the bug, and the mur- 
dered fly; 
These it had been your lot to bear, 
Had a stain been found on the earthly fair. 
Now list, and mark our mild decree — 
Fairy, this your doom must be : 

" Thou shalt seek the beach of sand 
Where the water bounds the elfin land, 
Thou shalt watch the oozy brine 
Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moon- 
shine, 
Then dart the glistening arch below, 
And catch a drop from his silver bow. 
The water-sprites will wield their arms 

And dash around, with roar and rave, 
And vain are the woodland spirits' charms. 

They are the imps that rule the wave. 
Yet trust thee in thy single might, — 
If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right. 
Thou shalt win the warlock fight. 

" If the spray-bead gem be won. 

The stain of thy wing is washed away. 

But another errand must be done 
Ere thy crime be lost for aye; 

Thy flame - wood lamp is quenched and 
dark, 

Thou must re-illumine its spark. 

Mount thy steed and spur him high 

To the heaven's blue canopy; 

And when thou seest a shooting star. 

Follow it fast, and follow it far — 

The last faint spark of its burning train 

Shall light the elfin lamp again. 

Thou hast heard our sentence. Fay ; 

Hence ! to the water-side, away ! " 

THE FIRST QUEST 

The goblin marked his monarch well; 

He spake not, but he bowed him low, 
Then plucked a crimson colon-bell, 

And turned him round in act to go. 
The way is long, he cannot fly, 

His soiled wing has lost its power, 
And he winds adown the mountain high. 

For many a sore and weary hour. 
Through dreary beds of tangled fern, 



Through groves of nightshade dark and 

dern. 
Over the grass and through the brake. 
Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake ; 

Now o'er the violet's azure flush 
He skips along in lightsome mood; 

And now he thrids the bramble bush, 
Till its points are dyed in fairy blood. 
He has leapt the bog, he has pierced the 

brier, 
He has swum the brook, and waded the 

mire. 
Till his spirits sank, and his limbs grew 

weak. 
And the red waxed fainter in his cheek. 
He had fallen to the ground outright, 
For rugged and dim was his onward 
track. 
But there came a spotted toad in sight. 
And he laughed as he jumped upon her 
back; 
He bridled her mouth with a silk-weed 
twist ; 
He lashed her sides with an osier thong"; 
And now through evening's dewy mist. 

With leap and spring they bound along. 
Till the mountain's magic verge is past. 
And the beach of sand is reached at last. 

Soft and pale is the moony beam. 
Moveless still the glassy stream, 
The wave is clear, the beach is bright 

With snowy shells and sparkling stones; 
The shore-surge comes in ripples light. 

In murmurings faint and distant moans; 
And ever afar in the silence deep 
Is heard the splash of the sturgeon's leap. 
And the bend of his graceful bow is 

seen — 
A glittering arch of silver sheen. 
Spanning the wave of burnished blue. 
And dripping with gems of the river dew. 

The elfin cast a glance around. 

As he lighted down from his courser 
toad, 
Then round his breast his wings he wound. 

And close to the river's brink he strode; 
He sprang on a rock, he breathed a prayer, 

Above his head his arms he threw. 
Then tossed a tiny curve in air. 

And headlong plunged in the waters blue. 

Up sprung the spirits of the waves, 
From sea-silk beds in their coral caves; 



44 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



With snail-plate armor snatched in haste, 
They speed their way through the liquid 

waste ; 
Some are rapidly borne along 
On the mailed shrimp or the prickly prong, 
Some on the blood-red leeches glide, 
Some on the stony star-fish ride, 
Some on the back of the lancing squab, 
Some on the sideling soldier-crab, 
And some on the jellied quarl, that flings 
At once a thousand streamy stings, — 
They cut the wave with the living oar 
And hurry on to the moonlight shore. 
To guard their realms and chase away 
The footsteps of the invading Fay. 

Fearlessly he skims along, 

His hope is high, and his limbs are strong, 

He spreads his arms like the swallow's 

wing, 
And throws his feet with a frog-like fling; 
His locks of gold on the waters shine, 

At his breast the tiny foam-beads rise, 
His back gleams bright above the brine. 

And the wake-line foam behind him lies. 
But the water-sprites are gathering near 

To check his course along the tide; 
Their warriors come in swift career 

And hem him round on every side ; 
On his thigh the leech has fixed his hold. 
The quarl's long arms are round him rolled, 
The prickly prong has pierced his skin. 
And the squab has thrown his javelin. 
The gritty star has rubbed him raw. 
And the crab has struck with his giant claw ; 
He liowls with rage, and he shrieks with 

pain. 
He strikes around, but his blows are vain; 
Hopeless is the unequal fight. 
Fairy ! naught is left but flight. 

He turned him round and fled amain 
With hurry and dash to the beach again; 
He twisted over from side to side. 
And laid his cheek to the cleaving tide. 
The strokes of his plunging arms are fleet. 
And with all his might he flings his feet, 
But the water-sprites are round him still. 
To cross his path and work him ill. 
They bade the wave before him rise; 
They flung the sea-fire in his eyes, 
And they stunned his ears with the scallop 

stroke. 
With the porpoise heave and the drum-fish 

croak. 



Oh ! but a weary wight was he 

When he reached the foot of the dog-wood 

tree; 
— Gashed and wounded, and stiff and sore. 
He laid him down on the sandy shore; 
He blessed the force of the' charmed line. 

And he banned the water-goblins' spite. 
For he saw around in the sweet moonshine. 
Their little wee faces above the brine. 

Giggling and laughing with all their 
might 

At the piteous hap of the Fairy wight. 

THE SECOND QUEST 

Up, Fairy ! quit thy chick-weed bower. 
The cricket has called the second hour, 
Twice again, and the lark will rise 
To kiss the streaking of the skies — 
Up ! thy charmed armor don, 
Thou 'It need it ere the night be gone. 

He put his acorn helmet on; 

It was plumed of the silk of the thistle 
down; 

The corselet plate that guarded his breast 

Was once the wild bee's golden vest; 

His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes, 

Was formed of the wings of butterflies; 

His shield was the shell of a lady-bug 
queen. 

Studs of gold on a ground of green; 

And the quivering lance, which he bran- 
dished bright. 

Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in 
fight. 
Swift he bestrode his fire-fly steed; 

He bared his blade of the bent grass blue; 
He drove his spurs of the cockle seed. 

And away like a glance of thought he flew, 

To skim the heavens and follow far 

The fiery trail of the rocket-star. 

The moth-fly, as he shot in air. 

Crept under the leaf, and hid her there; 

The katy-did forgot its lay. 

The prowling gnat fled fast away. 

The fell mosquito checked his drone 

And folded his wings till the Fay was 

gone. 
And the wily beetle dropped his head. 
And fell on the ground as if he were dead ; 
They crouched them close in the darksome 
shade. 
They quaked all o'er with aAve and fear, 



JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 



45 



For they had felt the blue-be ut blade, 
And writhed at the prick of the elfin 
spear; 
Many a time on a summer's night, 
When the sky was clear and the moon was 

bright, 
They had been roused from the haunted 

ground, 
By the yelp and bay of the fairy hound; 
They had heard the tiny bugle horn, 

They had heard the twang of the maize- 
silk string, 
When the vine-twig bows were tightly 

drawn, 
And the nettle shaft through air was borne. 
Feathered with down of the hum-bird's 
wing. 
And now they deemed the courier ouphe 
Some hunter sprite of the elfin ground; 
And they watched till they saw him mount 
the roof 
That canopies the world around; 
Then glad they left their covert lair, 
And freaked about in the midnight air. 

Up to the vaulted firmament 

His path the fire-fly courser bent, 

And at every gallop on the wind, 

He flung a glittering spark behind; 

He flies like a feather in the blast 

Till the first light cloud in heaven is past, 

But the shapes of air have begun their 
work. 
And a drizzly mist is round him cast, 

He cannot see through the mantle murk. 
He shivers with cold, but he urges fast. 

Through storm and darkness, sleet and 
shade ; 
He lashes his steed and spurs amain, 
For shadowy hands have twitched the rein, 

And flame-shot tongues around him 
played, 
And near him many a fiendish eye 
Glared with a fell malignity, 
And yells of rage, and shrieks of fear. 
Came screaming on his startled ear. 

His wings are wet around his breast, 
The plume hangs dripjiing from his crest. 
His eyes are blurred with the lightning's 

glare, 
And his ears are stunned with the thunder's 

blare, 
But he gave a shout, and his blade he dreW; 
He thrust before and he struck behind, 



Till he pierced their cloudy bodies through. 
And gashed their shadowy limbs of wind ; 

Howling the misty spectres flew, — 
They rend the air with frightful cries. 

For he has gained the welkin blue. 

And the land of clouds beneath him 
lies. 

Up to the cope careering swift 

In breathless motion fast. 
Fleet as the swallow cuts the drift. 

Or the sea-roc rides the blast. 
The sapphire sheet of eve is shot, 

The sphered moon is past, 
The earth but seems a tiny blot 

On a sheet of azure cast. 
O ! it was sweet in the clear moonlight, 

To tread the starry plain of even, 
To meet the thousand eyes of night. 

And feel the cooling breath of heaven ! 
But the Elfin made no stop or stay 
Till he came to the bank of the milky- 
way; 
Then he checked his courser's foot, 
And watched for the glimpse of the planet- 
shoot. 

ELFIN SONG 

Ouphe and goblin ! imp and sprite ! 

£lf of eve ! and starry Yaj ! 
Ye that love the moon's soft light. 

Hither — hither wend your way ; 
Twine ye in a jocund ring. 

Sing and trip it merrily. 
Hand to hand, and wing to wing, 

Bound the wild witch-hazel tree. 

Hail the wanderer again, 

W^ith dance and song, and lute and lyre. 
Pure his wing and strong his chain, 

And doubly bright his fairy fire. 
Twine ye in an air^^ round. 

Brush the dew and print the lea; 
Skip and gambol, hop and bound. 

Round the wild witch-hazel tree. 

The beetle guards our holy ground, 

He flies about the haunted place, 
And if mortal there be found. 

He hums in his ears and flaps his face; 
The leaf-harp sounds our roundelay. 

The owlet's eyes our lanterns be ; 
Thus we sing, and dance, and play, 

Round the wild witch-hazel tree. 



46 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



THE AMERICAN FLAG 



When Freedom from her mountain height 
Unfurled her standard to the air, 

She tore the azure robe of night, 
And set the stars of glory there. 

She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 

The milky baldric of the skies, 

And striped its pure celestial white 

With streakings of the morning light; 

Then from his mansion in the sun 

She called her eagle bearer down, 

And gave into his mighty hand 

The symbol of her chosen land. 

Majestic monarch of the cloud. 

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form. 
To hear the tempest trumpiugs loud 
And see the lightning lances driven. 

When strive the warriors of the storm, 
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, 
Child of the sun ! to thee 't is given 

To guard the banner of the free. 
To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
To ward away the battle stroke. 
And bid its blendings shine afar. 
Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 

The harbingers of victory ! 

Flag o£ the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
The sign of hope and triumph high. 
When speaks the signal trumpet tone, 
And the long line comes gleaming on. 
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, 



Each soldier eye shall brightly turn 
To where thy sky-born glories burn, 
And, as his springing steps advance. 
Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 
And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, 
And gory sabres rise and fall 
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall. 

Then shall thy meteor glances glow. 
And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 

Each gallant arm that strikes below 
That lovely messenger of death. 

Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; 
When death, careering on the gale. 
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 
And frighted waves rush wildly back 
Before the broadside's reeling rack, 
Each dying wanderer of the sea - 
Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
And smile to see thy splendors fly 
Li triumph o'er his closing eye. 

Flag of the free heart's hope and home ! 

By angel hands to valor given; 
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 

And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
Forever float that standard sheet ! 

Where breathes the foe but falls before 
us. 
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er 
us? 



(halleck and drake) 



THE NATIONAL PAINTINGS 

COL. TRUMBULL'S " THE DECLARATION 
OF INDEPENDENCE " 

Awake, ye forms of verse divine ! 

Painting ! descend on canvas wing, — 
And hover o'er my head, Design ! 

Your son, your glorious son, I sing; 
At Trumbull's name I break my sloth, 

To load him with poetic riches : 
The Titian of a table-cloth ! 

The Guido of a pair of breeches ! 



Come, star-eyed maid. Equality ! 

In thine adorer's praise I revel; 
Who brings, so fierce his love to thee, 

All forms and faces to a level : 
Old, young, great, small, the grave, the gay, 

Each man might swear the next his 
brother. 
And there they stand in dread array, 

To fire their votes at one another. 

How bright their buttons shine ! how 
straight 
Their coat-flaps fall in plaited grace ! 



LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY 



47 



How smooth tlie hair on every pate ! 

How vacant each immortal face ! 
And then the tints, tlie shade, the flush, 
(I wrong them with a strain too hum- 
ble), 
Not mighty Sherred's strength of brush 
Can match thy glowing hues, my Trum- 
bull ! 

Go on, great painter ! dare be dull — 

No longer after Nature dangle; 
Call rectilinear beautiful; 

Find grace and freedom in an angle; 
Pour on the red, the green, the yellow, 

"Paint till a horse may mire upon it," 
And, while I 've strength to write or bel- 
low, 

I '11 sound your praises in a sonnet. 

Joseph Rodman Drake 



THE MAN WHO FRETS AT 
WORLDLY STRIFE 

The man who frets at worldly strife 

Grows sallow, sour, and thin; 
Give us the lad whose happy life 

Is one perpetual grin: 
He, Midas-like, turns all to gold, — 

He smiles when others sigh. 
Enjoys alike the hot and cold. 

And laughs through wet and dry. 

There 's fun in everything we meet, — 

The greatest, worst, and best; 
Existence is a merry treat. 

And every speech a jest: 
Be 't ours to watch the crowds that pass 

Where Mirth's gay banner waves; 
To show fools through a quizzing-glass, 

And bastinade the knaves. 

The serious world will scold and ban. 

In clamor loud and hard, 
To hear Meigs called a Congressman, 

And Paulding styled a bard; 



But, come what may, the man 's in luck 

Who turns it all to glee. 
And laughing, cries, with honest Puck, 

" Good Lord ! what fools ye be." 

Joseph Rodman Drake 



ODE TO FORTUNE 

Fair lady with the bandaged eye ! 

I '11 pardon all thy scvirvy tricks, 
So thou wilt cut me, and deny 

Alike thy kisses and thy kicks: 
I 'm quite contented as I am. 

Have cash to keep my duns at bay, 
Can choose between beefsteaks and hara, 

And drink Madeira every day. 

My station is the middle rank. 

My fortune — just a competence — 
Ten thousand in the Franklin Bank, 

And twenty in the six per cents ; 
No amorous chains my heart enthrall, 

I neither borrow, lend, nor sell; 
Fearless I roam the City Hall, 

And bite my thumb at SherifP Bell. 

The horse that twice a week I ride 

At Mother Dawson's eats his fill; 
My books at Goodrich's abide. 

My country-seat is Weehawk hill; 
My morning lounge is Eastburn's shop, 

At Poppleton's I take my lunch, 
Niblo prepares my mutton-chop, 

And Jennings makes my whiskey-punch. 

When merry, I the hours amuse 

By squibbing Bucktails, Guards, and 
Balls, 
And when I 'm troubled with the blues 

Damn Clinton and abuse canals: 
Then, Fortune, since I ask no prize, 

At least preserve me from thy frown ! 
The man who don't attempt to rise 

'T were cruelty to tumble down. 

Halleck and Drake 



Upbia i^untleiJ dt>igourncp 



COLUMBUS 

St. Stephen's cloistered hall was proud 
In learning's pomp that day, 



For there a robed and stately crowd 
Pressed on in long array. 

A mariner with simple chart 
Confronts that conclave high. 



48 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



While strong ambition stirs his heart, 
And burning thoughts of wonder part 
From lip and sparkling eye. 

What hath he said ? With frowning face, 

In whispered tones they speak. 
And lines upon their tablets trace, 

Which flush each ashen cheek; 
The Inquisition's mystic doom 

Sits on their brows severe. 
And bursting forth in visioned gloom, 
Sad heresy from burning tomb 

Groans on the startled ear. 

Courage, thou Genoese ! Old Time 

Thy splendid dream shall crown; 
Yon Western Hemisphere sublime, 

Where unshorn forests frown. 
The awful Andes' cloud-wrapt brow. 

The Indian hunter's bow, 
Bold streams untamed by helm or prow. 
And rocks of gold and diamonds, thou 

To thankless Spain shalt show. 

Courage, World-finder ! Thou hast need ! 

In Fates' unfolding scroll, 
Dark woes and ingrate wrongs I read. 

That rack the noble soul. 
On ! on ! Creation's secrets probe, 

Then drink thy cup of scorn. 
And wrapped in fallen Caesar's robe. 
Sleep like that master of the globe, 

All glorious, — yet forlorn. 



THE INDIAN'S WELCOME TO 
THE PILGRIM FATHERS 

Above them spread a stranger sky ; 

Around, the sterile plain; 
The rock-bound coast rose frowning nigh; 

Beyond, — the wrathful main : 
Chill remnants of the wintry snow 

Still choked the encumbered soil. 
Yet forth those Pilgrim Fathers go 

To mark their future toil. 

'Mid yonder vale their corn must rise 

In summer's ripening pride. 
And there the church-spire woo the skies 

Its sister-school beside. 
Perchance mid England's velvet green 

Some tender thought reposed. 
Though nought upon their stoic mien 

Such soft regret disclosed. 



When sudden from the forest wide 

A red-browed chieftain came, 
With towering form, and haughty stride, 

And eye like kindling flame: 
No wrath he breathed, no conflict sought. 

To no dark ambush drew, 
But simply to the Old World brought 

The welcome of the New. 

That welcome was a blast and ban 

Upon thy race unborn; 
Was there no seer, — thou fated Man ! — 

Thy lavish zeal to warn ? 
Thou in thy fearless faith didst hail 

A weak, invading band. 
But who shall heed thy children's wail 

Swept Xrom their native land ? 

Thou gav'st the riches of thy streams, 

The lordship o'er thy waves. 
The region of thine infant dreams 

And of thy father's graves, — 
But who to yon proud mansions, piled 

With wealth of earth and sea, 
Poor outcast from thy forest wild. 

Say, who shall welcome thee ? 



THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON 
FROM ST. HELENA 

Ho ! City of the gay ! 

Paris ! what festal rite 
Doth call thy thronging million forth, 

All eager for the sight ? 
Thy soldiers line the streets 

In fixed and stern array, 
With buckled helm and bayonet, 

As on the battle-day. 

By square, and fountain side. 

Heads in dense masses rise, 
And tower and battlement and tree 

Are studded thick with eyes. 
Comes there some conqueror home 

In triumph from the fight, 
With spoil and captives in his train, 

The trophies of his might ? 

The Arc de Triomphe glows ! 

A martial host is nigh; 
France pours in long succession forth 

Her pomp of chivalry. 
No clarion marks their way. 

No victor trump is blown ; 



LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY 



49 



Why march they on so silently, 
Told by their tread alone ? 

Behold, in glittering show, 

A gorgeous car of state ! 
The white - plumed steeds, in cloth of 
gold, 

Bow down beneath its weight; 
And the noble war-horse, led 

Caparisoned along. 
Seems fiercely for his lord to ask, 

As his red eye scans the throng. 

Who rideth on yon car ? 

The incense flameth high, — 
Comes there some demi-god of old ? 

No answer ! — No reply ! 
Who rideth on yon car ? — 

No shout his minions raise, 
But by a lofty chapel dome 

The muffled hero stays. 

A king is standing there, 

And with uncovered head 
Receives him in the name of France: 

Receiveth whom ? — The dead ! 
Was he not buried deep 

In island-cavern dx"ear. 
Girt by the sounding ocean surge ? 

How came that sleeper here ? 

Was there no rest for him 

Beneath a peaceful pall, 
That thus he brake his stony tomb, 

Ere the strong angel's call ? 
Hark ! hark ! the requiem swells, 

A deep, soul-thrilling strain ! 
An echo, never to be heard 

By mortal ear again. 

A requiem for the chief. 

Whose fiat millions slew, — ' 
The soaring eagle of the Alps, 

The crushed at Waterloo: — 
The banished who returned. 

The dead who rose again. 
And rode in his shroud the billows proud 

To the sunny banks of Seine. 

They laid him there in state, 

That warrior strong and bold, — 



The imperial crown, with jewels bright, 

Upon his ashes cold. 
While round those columns proud 

The blazoned banners wave. 
That on a hundred fields he won 

With the heart's-blood of the brave; 

And sternly there kept guard 

His veterans scarred and old. 
Whose wounds of Lodi's cleaving bridge 

Or purple Leipsic told. 
Yes, there, with arms reversed. 

Slow pacing, night and day, 
Close watch beside the coffin kept 

Those veterans grim and gray. 

A cloud is on their brow, — 

Is it sorrow for the dead. 
Or memory of the fearful strife 

Where their country's legions fled ? 
Of Borodino's blood ? 

Of Beresina's wail ? 
The horrors of that dire retreat, 

Which turned old History pale ? 

A cloud is on their brow, — 

Is it sorrow for the dead. 
Or a shuddering at the wintry shaft 

By Russian tempests sped ? 
Where countless mounds of snow 

Marked the poor conscripts' grave, 
And, pierced by frost and famine, sank 

The bravest of the brave. 

A thousand trembling lamps 

The gathered darkness mock, 
And velvet drapes his hearse, who died 

On bare Helena's rock; 
And from the altar near, 

A never-ceasing hymn 
Is lifted by the chanting priests 

Beside the taper dim. 

Mysterious one, and proud ? 

In the land where shadows reign. 
Hast thou met the flocking ghosts of those 

Who at thy nod were slain ? 
Oh, when the cry of that spectral host 

Like a rushing blast shall be, 
What will thine answer be to them ? 

And what thy God's to thee ? 



5° 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD— DIVISION I 



€t^atW i§>prague 



FROM "CURIOSITY" 

THE NEWS 

The news ! our morning, noon, and evening 

cry. 
Day unto day repeats it till we die. 
For this the eit, the critic, and the fop. 
Dally the hour away in Tensor's shop; 
For this the gossip takes her daily route. 
And wears your threshold and your patience 

out J 
For this we leave the parson in the lurcli, 
And pause to prattle on the way to church ; 
Even when some coffined friend we gather 

round, 
We ask, " What news ? " then lay him in 

the ground; 
To this the breakfast owes its sweetest zest, 
For this the dinner cools, the bed remains 

unpressed. 
What gives each tale of scandal to the 

street, 
The kitchen's wonder, and the parlor's 

treat ? 
See the pert housemaid to the keyhole fly, 
When husband storms, wife frets, or lovers 

sigh; 
See Tom ransack your pockets for each 

note. 
And read your secrets while he cleans your 

coat; 
See, yes, to listen see even madam deign. 
When the smug seamstress pours her ready 

strain ; 
This wings the lie that malice breeds in 

fear, — 
No tongue so vile but finds a kindred ear; 
Swift flies each tale of laughter, shame, or 

folly. 
Caught by Paul Pry and carried home to 

Polly; 
On this each foul calumniator leans. 
And nods and hints the villany he means: 
Full well he knows what latent wildfire lies 
In the close whisper and the dark surmise ; 
A muffled word, a wordless wink has woke 
A warmer throb than if a Dexter spoke; 
And he, o'er Everett's periods who would 

nod. 
To track a secret, half the town has trod. 



O thou, from whose rank breath nor sex 

can save. 
Nor sacred virtue, nor the powerless 

grave, — 
Felon unwhipped ! than whom in yonder 

cells 
Full many a groaning wretch less guilty 

dwells. 
Blush — if of honest blood a drop remains 
To steal its lonely way along thy veins. 
Blush — if the bronze, long hardened on 

thy cheek, 
Has left a spot where that poor drop can 

speak; 
Blush to be branded with the slanderer's 

name. 
And, though thou dreadst not sin, at least 

dread shame. 
We hear, indeed, but shudder while we hear 
The insidious falsehood and the heartless 

jeer; 
For each dark libel that thou lickest to 

shape. 
Thou mayest from law but not from scorn 

escape ; 
The pointed finger, cold, averted eye, 
Insulted virtue's hiss — thou canst not fly. 

FICTION 

Look now, directed by yon candle's blaze, 
Where the false shutter half its trust be- 
trays — 
Mark that fair girl reclining in her bed. 
Its curtain round her polished shoulders 

spread: 
Dark midnight reigns, the storm is up in 

power ; 
What keeps her waking in that dreary 

hour ? 
See where the volume on her pillow lies — 
Claims Radcliffe or Chapone those frequent 

sighs ? 
'T is some wild legend — now her kind ■^ye 

fills, 
And now cold terror every fibre chills; 
Still she reads on — in fiotion's labyrinth 

lost. 
Of tyrant fathers, and of true love crossed; 
Of clanking fetters, low, mysterious groans. 
Blood-crusted daggers, and uncoffined bones, 



CHARLES SPRAGUE 



51 



Pale, gliding ghosts, with fingers dropping 

gore, 
And blue flames dancing round a dungeon 

door; — 
Still she reads on — even though to read 

she fears, 
And in each key-hole moan strange voices 

hears, 
While every shadow that withdraws her 

look 
Glares in her face, the goblin of her book; 
Still o'er the leaves her craving eye is 

cast, 
On all she feasts, yet hungers for the last; 
Counts what remains, now sighs there are 

no more, 
And now even those half tempted to skip 

o'er; 
At length, the bad all killed, the good all 

pleased, 
Her thirsting Curiosity appeased. 
She shuts the dear, dear book, that made 

her weep. 
Puts out her light, and turns away to sleep. 



THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS 

Gay, guiltless pair. 
What seek ye from the fields of heaven ? 

Ye have no need of prayer, 
Ye have no sins to be forgiven. 

Why perch ye here, 
Where mortals to their Maker bend ? 

Can your pure spirits fear 
The God ye never could offend ? 

Ye never knew 
The crimes for which we come to weep. 

Penance is not for you. 
Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. 

To you 't is given 
To wake sweet Nature's untaught lays, 

Beneath the arch of heaven 
To chirp away a life of praise. 



Then spread each wing. 
Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands, 

And join the choirs that sing 
In yon blue dome not reared with hands 

Or, if ye stay 
To note the consecrated hour. 

Teach me the airy way. 
And let me try your envied power. 

Above the crowd. 
On upward wings could I but fly, 

I 'd bathe in yon bright cloud. 
And seek the stars that gem the sky. 

'T were Heaven indeed 
Through fields of trackless light to soar, 

On nature's charms to feed. 
And Nature's own great God adore. 



THE BROTHERS 

We are but two — the others sleep 
Through death's untroubled night; 

We are but two — 0, let us keep 
The link that binds us bright. 

Heart leaps to heart — the sacred flood 

That warms us is the same; 
That good old man — his honest blood 

Alike we fondly claim. 

We in one mother's arms were locked — 

Long be her love repaid ; 
In the same cradle we were rocked, 

Round the same hearth we played. 

Our boyish sports were all the same, 

Each little joy and woe; — 
Let manhood keep alive the flame, 

Lit up so long ago. 

We are but two — be that the band 

To hold us till we die; 
Shoulder to shoulder let us stand, 

Till side by side we lia 



52 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



3|oi)n l^cal 



MEN OF THE NORTH 

Men of the North, look up ! 

There 's a tumult in your sky; 
A troubled glory surgmg out, 

Great shadows hurrying by. 

Your strength — where is it now ? 

Your quivers — are they spent ? 
Your arrows in the rust of death, 

Your fathers' bows unbent ? 

Men of the North, awake ! 

Ye 're called to from the deep ; 
Trumpets in every breeze — 

Yet there ye lie asleep. 

A stir in every tree ; 

A shout from every wave; 
A challenging on every side; 

A moan from every grave : 

A battle in the sky; 

Ships thundering through the air — 
Jehovah on the march — 

Men of the North, to prayer ! 

Now, now — in all your strength; 

There 's that before your way, 
Above, about you, and below. 

Like armies in array. 

Lift up your eyes, and see 

The changes overhead; 
Now hold your breath and hear 

The mustering of the dead. 

See how the midnight air 

With briglit commotion burns, 
Thronging with giant shapes. 

Banner and spear by turns. 

The sea-fog driving in. 

Solemnly and swift. 
The moon afraid — stars dropping out ■ 

The very skies adrift; 

The Everlasting God, 

Our Father — Lord of Love — 
With cherubim and seraphim 

All gathering above; 



Their stormy plumage lighted up 
As forth to war they go; 

The shadow of the Universe, 
Upon our haughty foe ! 



MUSIC OF THE NIGHT 

Theke are harps that complain to the pre 
sence of night. 
To the presence of night alone — 
In a near and unchangeable tone — 
Like winds, full of sound, that go whisper- 
ing by. 
As if some immortal had stooped from the 
sky, 
And breathed out a blessing — and flown ! 

Yes ! harps that complain' to the breezes of 
night. 
To the breezes of night alone ; 
Growing fainter and fainter, as ruddy and 

bright 
The sun rolls aloft in his drapery of light. 
Like a conqueror, shaking his brilliant 

hair 
And flourishing robe, on the edge of the 
air ! 
Burning crimson and gold 
On the cl6uds that unfold. 
Breaking onward in flame, while an ocean 

divides 
On his right and his left. So the Thun- 
derer rides. 
When he cuts a bright path through the 
heaving tides, 
Rolling on, and erect, in a charioting 
throne ! 

Yes ! strings that lie still in the gushing of 
day, 
That awake, all alive, to the breezes of 
night; 

There are hautboys and flutes too, forever 
at play 

When the evening is near, and the sun is 
away, 
Breathing out the still hymn of de- 
light; 

These strings by invisible fingers are 
played — 



JOHN NEAL — WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 



53 



By spirits, unseen and unknown, 
But thick as the stars, all this music is made ; 

And these flutes, alone, 
In one sweet dreamy tone, 

Are ever blown, 
Forever and forever. 



The live-long night ye hear the sound, 
Like distant waters flowing round 
In ringing caves, while heaven is sweet 
With crowding tunes, like halls 
Where fountain-music falls, 
And rival minstrels meet. 



IBiniam Culkn 25rpaiit 



THANATOPSIS 

To him who in the love of Nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she 

speaks 
A various language ; for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 
Into his darker musings, with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When 

thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall. 
And breathless darkness, and the narrow 

house. 
Make thee to shudder and grow sick at 

heart; — 
Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
To Nature's teachings, while from all 

around — 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of 

air — 
Comes a still voice: — 

Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground. 
Where thy pale form was laid with many 

tears, 
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, 

shall claim 
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again. 
And, lost each human trace, surrendering 

_ . .lip. . 

Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
To mix forever with the elements, 
To be a brother to the insensible rock 
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude 
swain 



Turns with his share, and treads upon. 

The oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy 

mould. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou 

wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie 

down 
With patriarchs of the infant world — with 

kings, 
The powerful of the earth — the wise, the 

good. 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past. 
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the 

vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between; 
The venerable woods — rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
That make the meadows green ; and, poured 

round all. 
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man. The golden 

sun. 
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death 
Through the still lapse of ages. All that 

tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. — Take the 

wings 
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness. 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound. 
Save his own dashings — yet the dead are 

there; 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them 

down 



54 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



In their last sleep — the dead reign there 

alone. 
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou with- 
draw 
In silence from the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure ? All that 

breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of 

care 
Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall 

leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and 

shall come 
And make their bed with thee. As the 

long train 
Of ages glides away, the sons of men — 
The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who 

goes 
In the full strength of years, matron and 

maid. 
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed 

man — 
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side. 
By those, who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to 

join 
The innumerable caravan, which moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each shall 

take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death. 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night. 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and 

soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his 

couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant 

dreams. 



TO A WATERFOWL 

Whithek, midst falling dew. 
While glow the heavens with the last steps 

of day, 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou 
pursue I 

Thy solitary way ? 

Vainly the fowler's eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee 
wrong, 



As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 
Thy figure floats along. 

Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 

On the chafed ocean side ? 

There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast — 
The desert and illimitable air — 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fanned. 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmo- 
sphere. 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 

Though the dark night is near. 

An^ soon that toil shall end; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and 

rest. 
And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall 
bend. 
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 

Thou 'rt gone ! the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my 

heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 

And shall not soon depart. 

He, who, from zone to zone. 
Guides through the boundless sky thy cer- 
tain flight. 
In the long way that I must tread alone 

Will lead my steps aright. 



FAIREST OF THE 
MAIDS 



RURAL 



O FAIREST of the rural maids ! 
Thy birth was in the forest shades; 
Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky, 
Were all that met thine infant eye. 

Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child. 
Were ever in the sylvan wild; 
And all the beauty of the place 
Is in thy heart and on thy face. 

The twilight of the trees and rocks 
Is in the light shade of thy locks; 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 



55 



Thy step is as the wind, that weaves 
Its playful way among the leaves. 

Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene 
And silent waters heaven is seen; 
Their lashes are the herbs that look 
On their young figures in the brook. 

The forest depths, by foot unprest, 
Are not more sinless than thy breast; 
The holy peace, that fills the air 
Of those calm solitudes, is there. 



A FOREST HYMN 

The groves were God's first temples. Ere 

man learned 
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave. 
And spread the roof above them — ere he 

framed 
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 
The sound of anthems; in the darkling 

wood. 
Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down, 
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks 
And supplication. For his simple heart 
Might not resist the sacred influence 
Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, 
And from the gray old trunks that high in 

heaven 
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the 

sound 
Of the invisible breath that swayed at 

once 
All their ^reen tops, stole over him, and 

bowed 
His spirit with the thought of boundless 

power 
And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why 
Should we, in the world's riper years, neg- 
lect 
God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore 
Only among the crowd, and under roofs 
That our frail hands have raised ? Let 

me, at least. 
Here in the shadow of this aged wood, 
Offer one hymn — thrice happy, if it find 
Acceptance in His ear. 

Father, thy hand 
Hath reared these venerable columns, thou 
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst 

look down 
Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose 



All these fair ranks of trees. They in thy 

sun 
Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy 

breeze, 
And shot toward heaven. The century- 
living crow. 
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and 

died 
Among their branches, till, at last, they 

stood. 
As now they stand, massy, and tall, and 

dark. 
Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold 
Communion with his Maker. These dim 

vaults, 
^These winding aisles, of human pomp or 
X pride 

Report not. No fantastic carvings show 
The boast^of our vain race to change the 

forno"" 
Of thy fair works. But thou art here — 

thou fiU'st 
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds 
That run along the summit of these trees 
In music; thou art in the cooler breath 
That from the inmost darkness of the place 
Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the 

ground. 
The fresh moist ground, are all instinct 

with thee. 
Here is continual worship ; — Nature, here, 
In the tranquillity that thou dost love, 
Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, 
From perch to perch, the solitary bird 
Passes; and yon clear spring, that, midst 

its herbs. 
Wells softly forth and wandering steeps 

the roots 
Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale 
Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left 
Thyself without a witness, in the shades. 
Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, 

and grace 
Are here to speak of thee. This mighty 

oak — 
By whose immovable stem I stand and seem 
Almost annihilated — not a prince 
In all that proud old world beyond the 

deep 
E'er wore his crown as loftily as he 
Wears the green coronal of leaves with 

which 
Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his 

root 
Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare 



56 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Of the broad sun, that delicate forest 

flower, 
With scented breath and look so like a 

smile, 
Seems, as it issues from the^hapeless mould, 
An emanation of the indwelling Life, 
A visible token of the upholding Love, 
That are the soul of this great universe. 

My heart is awed within me when I think 
Of the great miracle that still goes on. 
In silence, round me — the perpetual work 
Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed 
Forever. Written on thy works I read 
The lesson of thy own eternity. 
Lo ! all grow old and die — but see again. 
How on the faltering footsteps of decay 
Youth presses — ever gay and beautiful 

youth 
In all its beautiful forms. These lofty 

trees 
Wave not less proudly that their ancestors 
Moulder beneath them. Oh, there is not 

lost 
One of earth's charms: upon her bosom 

yet, 

After the flight of untold centuries. 
The freshness of her far beginning lies 
And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate 
Of his arch enemy Death — yea, seats him- 
self 
Upon the tyrant's throne, — the sepulchre, 
And of the triumiahs of his ghastly foe 
Makes his own nourishment. For he came 

forth 
From thine own bosom, and shall have no 
end. 

There have been holy men who hid them- 
selves 
Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave 
Their lives to thought and prayer, till they 

outlived 
The generation born with them, nor seemed 
Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks 
Around them ; — and there have been holy 

men 
Who deemed it were not well to pass life 

thus. 
But let me often to these solitudes 
Retire, and in thy presence reassure 
My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, 
The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink 
And tremble and are still. O God ! when 
thou 



Dost scare the world with tempests, set on 

fire 
The heavens with falling thunder-bolts, or 

fill, 
With all the waters of the firmament, 
The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the 

woods 
And drowns the villages; when, at thy call. 
Uprises the great deep and throws himself 
Upon the continent, and overwhelms 
Its cities — who forgets not, at the sight 
Of these tremendous tokens of thy power. 
His pride, and lays his strifes and follies 

by? 
Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face 
Spare me and mine, nor let us need the 

wrath 
Of the mad unchained elements to teach 
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate, 
In these calm shades, thy milder majesty. 
And to the beautiful order of thy works 
Learn to conform the order of our lives. 



JUNE 

I GAZED upon the glorious sky 

And the green mountains round, 
And thought that when I came to lie 

At rest within the ground, 
'T were pleasant that, in flowery June, 
When brooks send up a cheerful tune, 

And groves a joyous sound. 
The sexton's hand, my grave to make, 
The rich, green mountain-turf should break. 

A cell within the frozen mould, 
A coffin borne through sleet, 

And icy clods above it rolled. 

While fierce the tempests beat — 

Away ! — I will not think of these — 

Blue be the sky and soft the breeze, 
Earth green beneath the feet. 

And be the damp mould gently pressed 

Into my narrow place of rest. 

There through the long, long summer hours. 

The golden light should lie. 
And thick young herbs and groups of flowers 

Stand in their beauty by. 
The oriole should build and tell 
His love-tale close beside my cell; 

The idle butterfly 
Should rest him there, and there be heard 
The housewife bee and humming-bird. 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 



57 



And what if cheerful shouts at noon 
Come, from the village sent, 

Or songs of maids, beneath the moon 
With fairy laughter blent ? 

And what if, in the evening light, 

Betrothed lovers walk in sight 
Of my low monument ? 

I would the lovely scene around 

Might know no sadder sight nor sound. 

I know that I no more should see 

The season's glorious show, 
Nor would its brightness shine for me, 

Nor its wild music flow; 
But if, around my place of sleep, 
The friends I love should come to weep, 

They might not haste to go. 
Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom 
Shonld keep them lingering by my tomb. 

These to their softened hearts should bear 
The thought of what has been. 

And speak of one who cannot share 
The gladness of the scene; 

Whose part, in all the pomp that fills 

The circuit of the summer hills. 
Is that his grave is green; 

And deeply would their hearts rejoice 

To hear again his living voice. 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest 

of the year. 
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and 

meadows brown and sere. 
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the 

autumn leaves lie dead; 
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the 

rabbit's tread. 
The robin and the wren are flown, and from 

the shrubs the jay, 
And from the wood-top calls the crow 

through all the gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young 
flowers, that lately sprang and stood 

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous 
sisterhood ? 

Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle 
race of flowers 

Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair 
and good of ours. 



The rain is falling where they lie, bvit the 

cold November rain 
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the 

lovely ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they per- 
ished long ago, 

And the brier-rose and the orchis died 
amid the summer glow; 

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster 
in the wood. 

And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, 
in autumn beauty stood. 

Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, 
as falls the plague on men. 

And the brightness of their smile was gone, 
from upland, glade, and glen. 

And now, when comes the calm mild day, 

as still such days will come, 
To call the squirrel and the bee from out 

their winter home; 
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, 

though all the trees are still. 
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters 

of the rill. 
The south wind searches for the flowers 

whose fragrance late he bore. 
And sighs to find them in the wood and by 

the stream no more. 

And then I think of one who in her youth- 
ful beauty died, 

The fair meek blossom that grew up and 
faded by my side. 

In the cold moist earth we laid her, when 
the forest cast the leaf. 

And we wept that one so lovely should 
have a life so brief: 

Yet not tmmeet it was that one like that 
young friend of ours, 

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish 
with the flowers. 



THE PAST 

Thou unrelenting Past ! 
Strong are the barriers round thy dark do- 
main. 

And fetters, sure and fast. 
Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. 

Far in thy realm withdrawn 
Old empires sit in suUenness and gloom, 



58 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



And glorious ages gone 
Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. 

Childhood, with all its mirth, 
Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to the 
ground. 

And last, Man's Life on earth, 
Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound. 

Thou hast my better years ; 
Thou hast my earlier friends, the good, the 
kind. 

Yielded to thee with tears — 
The venerable form, the exalted mind. 

My spirit yearns to bring 
The lost ones back — yearns with desire 
intense. 
And struggles hard to wring 
Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives 
thence. 

In vain; thy gates deny 
Ail passage save to those who hence de- 
part; 
Nor to the streaming eye 
Thou giv'st them back — nor to the broken 
heart. 

In thy abysses hide 
Beauty and excellence unknown; to tliee 

Earth's wonder and her pride 
Are gathered, as the waters to the sea; 

Labors of good to man, 
Unpublished charity, unbroken faith. 

Love, that midst grief began. 
And grew with years, and faltered not in 
death. 

Full many a mighty name 
Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered ; 

With thee are silent fame. 
Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared. 

Thine for a space are they — 
Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at 
last: 

Thy gates shall yet give way, 
Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past ! 

All that of good and fair 
Has gone into thy womb from earliest time, 

Shall then come forth to wear 
The glory and the beauty of its prime. 



They have not perished — no ! 
Kind words, remembered voices once so 
sweet, 

Smiles, radiant long ago, 
And features, the great soul's apparent seat. 

All shall come back; each tie 
Of pure affection shall be knit again; 

Alone shall Evil die, 
And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. 

And then shall I behold 
Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung, 

And her, who, still and cold, 
Fills the next grave — the beautiful and 
young. 



THE EVENING WIND 

Spirit that breathest through my lattice, 

thou 
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry 

day. 
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my 

brow; 
Thou hast been out upon the deep at 

play, 
Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, 
Roughening their crests, and scattering 

high their spray. 
And swelling the white sail. I welcome 

thee 
To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the 

sea ! 

Nor I alone ; a thousand bosoms round 

Inhale thee in the fulness of delight ; 
And languid forms rise up, and pulses 
bound 
Livelier, at coming of the wind of 
night; 
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound. 
Lies the vast inland stretched beyond 
the sight. 
Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth, 
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting 
earth ! 

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest. 
Curl the still waters, bright with stars, 
and rouse 
The wide old wood from his majestic rest. 
Summoning from the innumerable 
boughs ■■ 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 



59 



The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his 

breast; 
Pleasant shall be thy way where 

meekly bows 
The shutting flower, and darkling waters 

pass. 
And where the o'ershadowing branches 

sweep the grass. 

The faint old man shall lean his silver 
head 
To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child 
asleep, 
And dry the moistened curls that over- 
spread 
His temples, while his breathing grows 
more deep ; 
And they who stand about the sick man's 
bed 
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep. 
And softly part his curtains to allow 
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. 

Go — but the circle of eternal change, 

Which is the life of Nature, shall re- 
store. 
With sounds and scents from all thy 
mighty range, 
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep 
once more; 
Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and 
strange. 
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the 
shore ; 
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem 
He hears the rustling leaf and running 
stream. 



TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN 

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, 
And colored with the heaven's own blue. 
That openest when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night, 

Thou comest not when violets lean 
O'er wandering brooks and springs ujtiseen. 
Or columbines, in purple dressed, 
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. 

Thou waitest late and com'st alone. 
When woods are bare and birds are flown, 
And frost and shortening days portend 
The aged year is near his end. 



Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky. 
Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 

I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draw near to me, 
Hope, blossoming within my heart, 
May look to heaven as I depart. 



THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES 

Ay, this is freedom ! — these pure skies 

Were never stained with village smoke: 
The fragrant wind, that through them flies, 

Is breathed from wastes by plough un- 
broke. 
Here, with my rifle and my steed, 

And her who left the world for me, 
I plant me, where the red deer feed 

In the green desert — and am free. 

For here the fair savannas know 

No barriers in the bloomy grass; 
Wherever breeze of heaven may blow, 

Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass. 
In pastures, measureless as air. 

The bison is my noble game ; 
The bounding elk, whose antlers tear 

The branches, falls before my aim. 

Mine are the river-fowl that scream 

From the long stripe of waving sedge ; 
The bear, that marks my weapon's gleam, 

Hides vainly in the forest's edge; 
In vain the she- wolf stands at bay; 

The brinded catamount, that lies 
High in the boughs to watch his prey. 

Even in the act of springing, dies. 

With what free growth the elm and plane 

Fling their huge arms across my way, 
Gray, old, and cumbered with a train 

Of vines, as huge, and old, aud gray ! 
Free stray the lucid streams, and find 

No taint in these fresh lawns and shades; 
Free spring the flowers that scent the 
wind 

Where never scythe has swept the glades. 

Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere 
The hea^'y herbage of the ground, 

Gathers his annual harvest here, 

With roaring like the battle's sound, 



6o 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



And hurrying flames that sweep the plain, 
And smoke-streams gushing up the sky ; 

I meet the flames with flames again, 
And at my door they cower and die. 

Here, from dim woods, the aged past 

Speaks solemnly; and I behold 
The boundless future in the vast 

And lonely river, seaward rolled. 
Who feeds its founts with rain and dew ? 

Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass, 
And trains the bordering vines, whose blue 

Bright clustsrs tempt me as I pass ? 

Broad are these streams — my steed obeys, 

Plunges, and bears me through the tide. 
Wide are these woods — I tread the maze 

Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. 
I hunt till day's last glimmer dies 

O'er woody vale and glassy height; 
And kind the voice and glad the eyes 

That welcome my return at night. 



THE BATTLE-FIELD 

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands. 
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, 

And fiery hearts and armed hands 
Encountered in the battle-cloud. 

Ah ! never shall the land forget 

How gushed the life-blood of her 
brave — 
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet. 

Upon the soil they fought to save. 

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still; 

Alone the chirp of flitting bird. 
And talk of children on the hill. 

And bell of wandering kine are heard. 

No solemn host goes trailing by 

The black-mouthed gun and staggering 
wain; 
Men start not at the battle-cry, 

Oh, be it never heard again ! 

Soon rested those who fought; but thou 
Who minglest in the harder strife 

For truths which men receive not now, 
Thy warfare only ends with life. 

A friendless warfare ! lingering long 
Through weary day and weary year, 



A wild and many-weaponed throng 

Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. 

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof. 
And blench not at thy chosen lot. 

The timid good may stand aloof. 

The sage may frown — yet faint thou 
not. 

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast. 
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; 

For with thy side shall dwell, at last, 
The victory of endurance born. 

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; 

The eternal years of God are hers; 
But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, 

And dies among his worshippers. 

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, 

When they who helped thee flee in fear, 

Die full of hope and manly trust. 
Like those who fell in battle here. 

Another hand thy sword shall wield. 
Another hand the standard wave, 

Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed 
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. 



FROM "AN EVENING REVERY " 

O THOU great Movement of the Universe, 
Or Change, or Flight of Time — for ye are 

one ! 
That bearest, silently, this visible scene 
Into night's shadow and the streaming rays 
Of starlight, whither art thou bearing me ? 
I feel the mighty current sweep me on. 
Yet know not wibither. Man foretells afar 
The courses of the stars; the very hour 
He knows when they shall darken or grow 

bright; 
Yet doth the eclipse of Sorrow and of 

Death 
Come unforewarned. Who next, of those 

I love. 
Shall pass from life, or, sadder yet, shall 

fall , 
From virtue ? Strife with foes, or bitterer 

strife 
With friends, or shame and general scorn 

of men — 
Which who can bear ? — or the fierce rack 

of pain — 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 



6i 



Lie they within my path ? Or shall the 

years 
Push me, with soft and inoffensive pace, 
Into the stilly twilight of my age ? 
Or do the portals of another life 
Even now, while I am glorying in my 

strength. 
Impend around me ? Oh, beyond that 

bourne, 
In the vast cycle of being which begins 
At that dread threshold, with what fairer 

forms 
Shall the great law of change and progress 

clothe 
Its workings ? Gently — so have good 

men tanght — 
Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide 
Into the new; the eternal flow of things, 
Like a bright river of the fields of heaven. 
Shall journey onward in perpetual peace. 



THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM 

Here are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarled 

pines. 
That stream with gray-green mosses; here 

the ground 
Was never trenched by spade, and flowers 

spring up 
Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet 
To linger here, among the flitting birds 
And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, 

and winds 
That shake the leaves, and scatter, as they 

pass, 
A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set 
With pale blue berries. In these peaceful 

shades — 
Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old — 
My thoughts go up the long dim path of 

years, 
Back to the earliest days of liberty. 

O Freedom ! thou art not, as poets 

dream, 
A fair young girl, with light and delicate 

limbs. 
And wavy tresses gushing from the cap 
With which the Roman master crowned his 

slave 
When he took off the gyves. A bearded 

man, 
Armed to the teeth, art thou; one mailed 

hand 



Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; 

thy brow. 
Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred 
With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs 
Are strong with struggling. Power at thee 

has launched 
His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten 

thee; 
They could not quench the life thou hast 

from heaven; 
Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon deep, 
And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, 
Have forged thy chain; yet, while he deems 

thee bound. 
The links are shivered, and the prison walls 
Fall outward; terribly thou springest forth. 
As springs the flame above a burning pile, 
And shoutest to the nations, who return 
Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor 

flies. 

Thy birthright was not given by human 
hands: 
Thou wert twin-born with man. In plea- 
sant fields, 
While yet our race was few, thou sat'st 

with him. 
To tend the quiet flock and watch the L'tars, 
And teach the reed to utter simple airs. 
Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood, - 
Didst war upon the panther and the woli 
His only foes ; and thou with him didst draw 
The earliest furrow on the mountain's side. 
Soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself. 
Thy enemy, although of reverend look. 
Hoary with many years, and far obeyed, 
Is later born than thou; and as he meets 
The grave defiance of thine elder eye, 
The usurper trembles in his fastnesses. 

Thou shalt wax stronger vrith the lapse 

of years. 
But he shall fade into a feebler age — 
Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his 

snares, 
And spring them on thy careless steps, and 

clap 
His withered bands, and from their ambush 

call 
His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall 

send 
Quaint maskers, wearing fair and gallant 

forms 
To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful 

words 



62 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by 

stealth, 
Twine round thee threads of steel, light 

thread on thread, 
That grow to fetters; or bind down thy 

arms 
With chains concealed in chaplets. Oh ! 

not yet 
Mayst thou unbrace thy corselet, nor lay 

by 
Thy sword; nor yet, O Freedom ! close 

thy lids 
In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps. 
And thou must watch and combat till the 

day 
Of the new earth and heaven. But wouldst 

thou rest 
Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men. 
These old and friendly solitudes invite 
Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees 
Were young upon the unviolated earth, 
And yet the moss-stains on the rock were 

new. 
Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced. 

AMERICA 

Oh mother of a mighty race, 
Yet lovely in thy youthful grace ! 

'i elder dames, thy haughty peers, 
"^Xdmire and hate thy blooming years. 

With words of shame 
And taunts of scorn they join thy name. 

For on thy cheeks the glow is spread 
That tints thy morning hills with red; 
Thy step — the wild deer's rustling feet 
Within thy woods are not more fleet; 

Thy hopeful eye 
Is bright as thine own sunny sky. 

Ay, let them rail — those haughty ones, 
While safe thou dwellest with thy sons. 
They do not know how loved thou art, 
How many a fond and fearless heart 

Would rise to throw 
Its life between thee and the foe. 

They know not, in their hate and pride. 
What virtues with thy children bide; 
How true, how good, thy graceful maids 
Make bright, like flowers, the valley shades ; 

What generous men 
Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen ; — 



What cordial welcomes greet the guest 
By thy lone rivers of the West; 
How faith is kept, and truth revered, • 
And man is loved, and God is feared, 

In woodland homes, 
And where the ocean border foams. 

There 's freedom at thy gates and rest 
For Earth's down-trodden and opprest, 
A shelter for the hunted head. 
For the starved laborer toil and bread. 

Power, at thy bounds. 
Stops and calls back his baJBBLed hounds. 

Oh, fair young mother ! on thy brow 
Shall sit a nobler grace than now. 
Deep in the brightness of the skies 
The thronging years in glory rise, 

And, as they fleet, 
Drop strength and riches at thy feet. 

Thine eye, with every coming hour. 
Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower; 
And when thy sisters, elder born. 
Would brand thy name with words of scorn. 

Before thine eye, 
Upon their lips the taunt shall die. 



THE PLANTING OF THE 
APPLE-TREE 

Come, let ns plant the apple-tree. 
Cleave the tough greensward with the spade ; 
Wide let its hollow bed be made; 
There gently lay the roots, and there 
Sift the dark mould with kindly care, 

And press it o'er them tenderly. 
As, round the sleeping infant's feet, 
We softly fold the cradle-sheet; 

So plant we the apple-tree. 

What plant we in this apple-tree ? 
Buds, which the breath of summer days 
Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; 
Boughs where the thrush, with crimson 

breast, 
Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest; 

We plant, upon the sunny lea, 
A shadow for the noontide hour, 
A shelter from the summer shower. 

When we plant the apple-tree. 

What plant we in this apple-tree ? 
Sweets for a hundred flowery springs 



I 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 



63 



To load, the May-wind's restless wings, 
When, from the orchard row, he pours 
Its fragrance through our open doors; 

A world of blossoms for the bee. 
Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, 
For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, 

We plant with the apple-tree. 

What plant we in this apple-tree ? 
Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, 
And redden in the August noon. 
And drop, when gentle airs come by, 
That fan the blue September sky. 

While children come, with cries of glee. 
And seek them where the fragrant grass 
Betrays their bed to those who pass, 

At the foot of the apple-tree. 

And when, above this apple-tree. 
The winter stars are quivering bright, 
And winds go howling through the night, 
Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth. 
Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth, 

And guests in prouder homes shall see, 
Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine 
And golden orange of the line. 

The fruit of the apple-tree. 

The fruitage of this apple-tree 
Winds and our flag of stripe and star 
Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, 
Where men shall wonder at the view, 
And ask in what fair groves they grew; 

And sojourners beyond the sea 
Shall think of childhood's careless day. 
And long, long hours of summer play, 

In the shade of the apple-tree. 

Each year shall give this apple-tree 
A broader flush of roseate bloom, 
A deeper maze of verdurous gloom. 
And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, 
The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. 

The years shall come and pass, but we 
Shall hear no longer, where we lie. 
The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh. 

In the boughs of the apple-tree. 

And time shall waste this apple-tree. 
Oh, when its aged branches throw 
Thin shadows on the ground below. 
Shall fraud and force and iron will 
Oppress the weak and helpless still ? 

What shall the tasks of mercy be, 
Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears 



Of those who live when length of years 
Is wasting this little apple-tree ? 

" Who planted this old apple-tree ? " 
The children of that distant day 
Thus to some aged man shall say; 
And, gazing on its mossy stem. 
The gray-haired man shall answer them: 

" A poet of the land was he, 
Born in the rude but good old times; 
'T is said he made some quaint old rhymes. 

On planting the apple-tree." 



THE MAY SUN SHEDS AN 
AMBER LIGHT 

The May sun sheds an amber light 

On new-leaved woods and lawns between; 
But she who, with a smile more bright. 
Welcomed and watched the springing 
green. 

Is in her grave, 
Low in her grave. 

The fair white blossoms of the wood 

In groups beside the pathway stand; 
But one, the gentle and the good, 

Who cropped them with a fairer hand, 
Is in her grave. 
Low in her grave. 

Upon the woodland's morning airs 

The small birds' mingled notes are flung; 
But she, whose voice, more sweet than 
theirs. 
Once bade me listen while they sung. 
Is in her grave, 
Low in her grave. 

That music of the early year 

Brings tears of anguish to my eyes; 

My heart aches when the flowers appear; 

For then I think of her who lies 

Within her grave. 

Low in her grave. 



THE CONQUEROR'S GRAVE 

Within this lowly grave a Conqueror lies. 
And yet the monument proclaims it not. 
Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel 
wrought 

The emblems of a fame that never dies, -^ 



64 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Ivy aud amaranth, in a graceful sheaf, 
Twined with the laurel's fair, imperial 
leaf. 
A simple name alone. 
To the great world unknown, 
Is graven here, and wild-flowers, rising 

round, 
Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the 
ground, 
Lean lovingly against the humble stone. 

Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart 
No man of iron mould and bloody hands, 
Who sought to wreak upon the cowering 
lands 
The passions that consumed his restless 

heart ; 
But one of tender spirit and delicate frame, 
Gentlest, in mien and mind, 
Of gentle womankind, 
Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame: 
One in whose eyes the smile of kindness 
made 
Its haunts, like flowers by sunny brooks 
in May, 
Yet, at the thought of others' pain, a shade 
Of sweeter sadness chased the smile 
away. 

Nor deem that when the hand that mould- 
ers here 
Was raised in menace, realms were chilled 
with fear, 
And armies mustered at the sign, as when 
Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy 
East — 
Gray captains leading bands of veteran 
men 
And fiery youths to be the vulture's feast. 
Not thus were waged the mighty wars that 

gave 
The victory to her who fills this grave: 
Alone her task was wrought. 
Alone the battle fought; 
Through that long strife her constant hope 

was stayed 
On God alone, nor looked for other aid. 

She met the hosts of Sorrow with a look 
That altered not beneath the frown they 
wore. 
And soon the lowering brood were tamed, 
and took. 
Meekly, her gentle rule, and frowned no 



Her soft hand put aside the assaults of 
wrath, 
And calmly broke in twain 
The fiery shafts of pain. 
And rent the nets of passion from her path. 
By that victorious hand despair was 
slain. 
With love she vanquished hate and over- 
came 
Evil with good, in her Great Master's name. 

Her glory is not of this shadowy state. 

Glory that with the fleeting season dies; 

But when she entered at the sapphire 

gate 

What joy was radiant in celestial eyes ! 

How heaven's bright depths with sounding 

welcomes rung, , 

And flowers of heaven by shining hands 
were flung ! 
And He who, long before. 
Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore. 
The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet. 
Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat; 
He who returning, glorious, from the grave. 
Dragged Death, disarmed, in chains, a 
crouching slave. 

See, as I linger here, the suu grows low; 
Cool airs are murmuring that the night 
is near. 
Oh, gentle sleeper, from thy grave I go 
Consoled though sad, in hope and yet in 
fear. 
Brief is the time, I know. 
The warfare scarce begun; 
Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast 

won. 
Still flows the fount whose waters strength- 
ened thee, 
The victors' names are yet too few to 
fill 
Heaven's mighty roll ; the glorious armory. 
That ministered to thee, is open still. 



THE POET 

Thou, who wouldst wear the name 
Of poet mid thy brethren of mankind, 

And clothe in words of flame 

Thoughts that shall live withiu the gen- 
eral niind ! 

Deem not the framing of a deathless lay 

The pastime of a drowsy summer day. 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 



65 



But gather all thy powers, 

And wreak them on the verse that thou 
dost weave, 
And in thy lonely hours, 

At silent morning or at wakeful eve, 
While the warm current tingles through 

thy veins, 
Set forth the burning words in fluent 
strains. 

No smooth array of phrase, 

Artfully sought and ordered though it 
be, 
Which the cold rhymer lays 

Upon his page with languid industry, 
Can wake the listless pulse to livelier 

speed. 
Or fill with sudden tears the eyes that read. 

The secret wouldst thou know 

To touch the heart or fire the blood at 
will? 
Let thine own eyes o'erflow; 

Let thy lips quiver with the passionate 
thrill; 
Seize the great thought, ere yet its power 

be past. 
And bind, in words, the fleet emotion fast. 

Then should thy verse appear 

Halting and harsh, and all unaptly 

wrought. 
Touch the crude line with fear, 

Save in the moment of impassioned 

thought; 
Then summon back the original glow, and 

mend 
The strain with rapture that with fire was 

penned. 

Yet let no empty gust 

Of passion find an utterance in thy lay, 
A blast that whirls the dust 

Along the howling street and dies away; 
But feelings of calm power and mighty 

sweep, 
Like currents journeying through the wind- 
less deep. 

Seek'st thou, in living lays, 

To limn the beauty of the earth and sky ? 
Before thine inner gaze 

Let all that beauty in clear vision lie ; 
Look on it with exceeding love, and write 
The words inspired by wonder and delight. 



Of tempests wouldst thou sing, 

Or tell of battles — make thyself a part 
Of the great tumult ; cling 

To the tossed wreck with terror in thy 
heart ; 
Scale, with the assaulting host, the ram- 
part's height, 
And strike and struggle in the thickest fight. 

So shalt thou frame a lay 

That haply may endure from age to age, 
And they who read shall say: 

" What witchery hangs upon this poet's 
page ! 
What art is his the written spells to find 
That sway from mood to mood the willing 
mind ! " 



MY AUTUMN WALK 

On woodlands ruddy with autumn 

The amber sunshine lies; 
I look on the beauty round me. 

And tears come into my eyes. 

For the wind that sweeps the meadows 
Blows out of the far Southwest, 

Where our gallant men are fighting, 
And the gallant dead are at rest. 

The golden-rod is leaning, 
And the purple aster waves. 

In a breeze from the land of battles, 
A breath from the land of graves. 

Full fast the leaves are dropping 
Before that wandering breath; 

As fast, on the field of battle. 
Our brethren fall in death. 

Beautiful over my pathway 

The forest spoils are shed; 
They are spotting the grassy hillocks 

With purple and gold and red. 

Beautiful is the death-sleep 

Of those who bravely fight 
In their country's holy quarrel, 

And perish for the Right. 

But who shall comfort the living. 
The light of whose homes is gone : 

The bride that, early widowed, 
Lives broken-hearted on; 



66 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



The matron whose sons are lying 
In graves on a distant shore; 

The maiden, whose promised husband 
Comes back from the war no more ? 

I look on the peaceful dwellings 
Whose windows glimmer in sight, 

With croft and garden and orchard, 
That bask in the mellow light; 

And I know that, when our couriers 

With news of victory come, 
They will bring a bitter message 

Of hopeless grief to some. 

Again I turn to the woodlands. 

And shudder as I see 
The mock-grape's blood-red banner 

Hung out on the cedar-tree ; 

And I think of days of slaughter. 
And the night-sky red with flames, 

On the Chattahoochee's meadows, 
And the wasted banks of the James. 

Oh, for the fresh spring-season. 

When the groves are in their prime, 

And far away in the future 
Is the frosty autumn-time ! 

Oh, for that better season. 

When the pride ef the foe shall yield. 
And the hosts of God and Freedom 

March back from the well-won field; 

And the matron shall clasp her first-born 
With tears of joy and pride ; 

And the scarred and war-worn lover 
Shall claim his promised bride ! 

The leaves are swept from the branches; 

But the living buds are there. 
With folded flower and foliage. 

To sprout in a kinder air. 

RosLYN, October, 1S64. 



THE DEATH OF SLAVERY 

O THOU great Wrong, that, through the 

slow-paced years, 
Didst hold thy millions fettered, and 

didst wield 
The scourge that drove the laborer to the 

field. 



And turn a stony gaze on human tears. 
Thy cruel reign is o'er; 
Thy bondmen crouch no more 
In terror at the menace of thine eye; 

For He who marks the bounds of guilty 
power, 
Long-sufEering, hath heard the captive's cry, 
And touched his shackles at the ap- 
pointed hour. 
And lo ! they fall, and he whose limbs they 

galled 
Stands in his native manhood, disenthralled. 

A shout of joy from the redeemed is sent; 
Ten thousand hamlets swell the hymn of 

thanks ; 
Our rivers roll exulting, and their banks 
Send up hosannas to the firmament ! 
Fields where the bondman's toil 
No more shall trench the soil. 
Seem now to bask in a serener day; 

The meadow-birds sing sweeter, and the 
airs 
Of heaven with more caressing softness 
play. 
Welcoming man to liberty like theirs. 
A glory clothes the land from sea to sea, 
For the great land and all its coasts are free. 

Within that land wert thou enthroned of 
late. 
And they by whom the nation's laws were 

made, 
And they who filled its judgment-seats, 
obeyed 
Thy mandate, rigid as the will of Fate. 
Fierce men at thy right hand, 
With gesture of command. 
Gave forth the word that none might dare 
gainsay; 
And grave and reverend ones, who loved 
thee not. 
Shrank from thy presence, and in blank 
dismay 
Choked down, unuttered, the rebellious 
thought ; 
While meaner cowards, mingling with thy 

train. 
Proved, from the book of God, thy right to 
reign. 

Great as thou wert, and feared from shore 
to shore. 

The wrath of Heaven o'ertook thee in thy 
pride ; 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 



67 



Thou sitt'st a ghastly shadow ; by thy side 
Thy once strong arms hang nerveless ever- 
more. 
And they who quailed but now 
Before thy lowering brow, 
Devote thy memory to scorn and shame, 
And scoff at the pale, powerless thing 
thou art. 
And they who ruled in thine imperial name, 

Subdued, and standing sullenly apart, 
Scowl at the hands that overthrew thy reign. 
And shattered at a blow the prisoner's 
chain. 

Well was thy doom deserved; thou didst 
not spare 
Life's tenderest ties, but cruelly didst 

part 
Husband and wife, and from the mother's 
heart 
Didst wrest her children; deaf to shriek and 
prayer; 
Thy inner lair became 
The haunt of guilty shame; 
Thy lash dropped blood; the murderer, at 
thy side, 
Showed his red hands, nor feared the ven- 
geance due. 
Thou didst sow earth with crimes, and, far 
and wide, 
A harvest of uncounted miseries grew, 
Until the measure of thy sins at last 
Was full, and then the avenging bolt was 
cast ! 

Go now, accursed of God, and take thy 
place 
With hateful memories of the elder time, 
With manjr a wasting plague, and namcr 
less crime, 
And bloody war that thinned the human 
race; 
With the Black Death, whose way 
Through wailing cities lay, 
Worship of Moloch, tyrannies that built 
The Pyramids, and cruel creeds that 
taught 
To avenge a fancied guilt by deeper guilt — 
Death at the stake to those that held 
them not. 
Lo ! the foul phantoms, silent in the gloom 
Of the flown ages, part to yield thee room. 

I see the better years that hasten by 
Carry thee back into that shadowy past, 



Where, in the dusty spaces, void and 
vast, 
The graves of those whom thou hast mur- 
dered lie. 
The slave-pen, through whose door 
Thy victims pass no more, 
Is there, and there shall the grim block re- 
main 
At which the slave was sold; while at 
thy feet 
Scourges and engines of restraint and pain 

Moulder and rust by thine eternal seat. 
There, mid the symbols that proclaim thy 

crimes. 
Dwell thou, a warning to the coming times. 



IN MEMORY OF JOHN LOTHROP 
MOTLEY 

Sleep, Motley, with the great of ancient 

days, 
Who wrote for all the years that yet shall 

be! 
Sleep with Herodotus, whose name and 

praise 
Have reached the isles of earth's remotest 

sea; 
Sleep, while, defiant of the slow decays 
Of time, thy glorious writings speak for 

thee. 
And in the answering heart of millions 

raise 
The generous zeal for Right and Liberty. 
And should the day o'ertake us when, at last, 
The silence — that, ere yet a human pen 
Had traced the slenderest record of the 

past, 
Hushed the primeval languages of men — 
Upon our English tongue its spell shall 

cast. 
Thy memory shall perish only then. 



THE FLOOD OF YEARS 

A MIOHTY Hand, from an exhaustless Urn, 
Pours forth the never-ending Flood of 

Years, 
Among the nations. How the rushing 

waves 
Bear all before them ! On their foremost 

edge, _ ^ 

And there alone, is Life. The Present 

there 



68 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Tosses and foams, and fills the air with 

roar 
Of mingled noises. There are they who 

toil, 
And they who strive, and they who feast, 

and they 
Who hurry to and fro. The sturdy swain — 
Woodman and delver_with the spade — is 

there, 
And busy artisan beside his bench, 
And pallid student with his written roll. 
A moment on the mounting billow seen. 
The flood sweeps over them and they are 

gone. 
There groups of revellers whose brows are 

twined 
With roses, ride the topmost swell awhile, 
And as they raise their flowing cups and 

touch 
The clinking brim to brim, are whirled be- 
neath 
The waves and disappear. I hear the jar 
Of beaten drums, and thunders that break 

forth 
From cannon, where the advancing billow 

sends 
Up to the sight long files of armed men, 
That hurry to the charge through flame 

and smoke. 
The torrent bears them under, whelmed 

and hid, 
Slayer and slain, in heaps of bloody foam. 
Down go the steed and rider, the plumed 

chief 
Sinks with his followers ; the head that 

wears 
The imperial diadem goes down beside 
The felon's with cropped ear and branded 

cheek. 
A funeral-train — the torrent sweeps away 
Bearers and bier and mourners. By the bed 
Of one who dies men gather sorrowing. 
And women weep aloud; the flood rolls on; 
The wail is stifled and the sobbing group 
Borne under. Hark to that shrill, sudden 

shout, 
The cry of an applauding multitude. 
Swayed by some loud-voiced orator who 

wields 
The living mass as if he were its soul ! 
The waters choke the shout and all is still. 
Lo ! next a kneeling crowd, and one who 

spreads 
The hands in prayer — the engulfing wave 

o'er takes 



And swallows them and him. A sculptor 

wields 
The chisel, and the stricken marble grows 
To beauty; at his easel, eager-eyed, 
A painter stands, and sunshine at his touch 
Gathers upon his canvas, and life glows; 
A poet, as he paces to and fro. 
Murmurs his sounding lines. Awhile they 

ride 
The advancing billow, till its tossing crest 
Strikes them and flings them under, while 

their tasks 
Are yet unfinished. See a mother smile 
On her young babe that smiles to her again ; 
The torrent wrests it from her arms; she 

shrieks 
And weeps, and midst her tears is carried 

down. 
A beam like that of moonlight turns the 

spray 
To glistening pearls; two lovers, hand in 

hand, 
Rise on the billowy swell and fondly look 
Into each other's eyes. The rushing flood 
Flings them apart: the youth goes down; 

the maid 
With hands outstretched in vain, and 

streaming eyes, 
Waits for the next high wave to follow him. 
An aged man succeeds; his bending form 
Sinks slowly. Mingling with the sullen 

stream 
Gleam the white locks, and then are seen 

no more. 
Lo ! wider grows the stream — a sea-like 

flood 
Saps earth's walled cities; massive palaces 
Crumble before it; fortresses and towers 
Dissolve in the swift waters; populous 

realms 
Swept by the torrent see their ancient 

tribes 
Engulfed and lost; their very languages 
Stifled, and never to be uttered more. 
I pause and turn my eyes, and looking 

back 
Where that tumultuous flood has been, I 

see 
The silent ocean of the Past, a waste 
Of waters weltering over graves, its shores 
Strewn with the wreck of fleets where mast 

and hull 
Drop away piecemeal; battlemented walls 
Frown idly, green with moss, and temples 

stand 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 



69 



Unroofed, forsaken by the worshipper. 
There lie memorial stones, whence time has 

gnawed 
The graven legends, thrones of kings o'er- 

turned, 
The broken altars of fo:ijgotten gods, 
Foundations of old cities and long streets 
Where never fall of human foot is heard. 
On all the desolate pavement. I behold 
Dim glimmerings of lost jewels, far witliin 
The sleeping waters, diamond, sardonyx, 
Ruby and topaz, pearl and chrysolite, 
Once glittering at the banquet on fair brows 
That long ago were dust ; and all around 
Strewn on the surface of that silent sea 
Are withering bridal wreaths, and glossy 

locks 
Shorn from dear brows by loving hands, 

and scrolls 
O'er writ ten, haply with fond words of love 
And vows of friendship, and fair pages 

flung 
Fresh from the printer's engine. There 

they lie ~ 

A moment, and then sink away from sight. 
I look, and the quick tears are in my eyes, 
For I behold in every one of these 
A blighted hope, a separate history 
Of human sorrows, telling of dear ties 
Suddenly broken, dreams of happiness 
Dissolved in air, and happy days too brief 
That sorrowfully ended, and I think 
How painfully must the poor heart have 

beat 
In bosoms without number, as the blow 
Was struck that slew their hope and broke 

their peace. 
Sadly I turn and look befoi'e, where yet 
The Flood must pass, and I behold a mist 
Where swarm dissolving forms, the brood 

of Hopcj 
Divinely fair, that rest on banks of flowers. 
Or wander among rainbows, fading soon 
And reappearing, haply giving place 
To forms of grisly aspect such as Fear 
Shapes from the idle air — where serpents 

lift 
The head to strike, and skeletons stretch 

forth 
The bony arm in menace. Further on 
A belt of darkness seems to tar the way 



Long, low, and distant, where the Life to 

come 
Touches the Life that is. The Flood of 

Years 
Rolls toward it near and nearer. It must 

pass 
That dismal barrier. What is there be- 
yond ? 
Hear what the wise and good have said. 

Beyond 
That belt of darkness, still the Years roll on 
More gently, but with not less mighty 

sweep. 
They gather up again and softly bear 
All the sweet lives that late were over- 
whelmed 
And lost to sight, all that in them was good. 
Noble, and truly great, and worthy of 

love — 
The lives of infants and ingenuous youths, 
Sages and saintly women who have made 
Their households happy; all are raised and 

borne 
By that great current in its onward sweep, 
Wandering and i-ippling with caressing 

waves 
Around green islands with the breath 
Of flowers that never wither. So they pass 
From stage to stage along the shining course 
Of that bright river, broadening like a sea. 
As its smooth eddies curl along their way 
They bring old friends together; hands are 

clasped 
In joy unspeakable; the mother's arms 
Again are folded round the child she loved 
And lost. Old sorrows are forgotten now, 
Or but remembered to make sweet the 

hour 
That overpays them; wounded hearts that 

bled 
Or broke are healed forever. In the room 
Of this grief-shadowed present, there shall 

be 
A Present in whose reign no grief shall 

gnaw 
The heart, and never shall a tender tie 
Be broken; in whose reign the eternal 

Change 
That waits on growth and action shall pro- 
ceed 
With everlasting Concord hand in hand. 



70 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



%ame^ <l3ate^ ^^crcibal 



ELEGIAC 

O, IT is great for our country to die, where 
ranks are contending ! 
Bright is the wreath of our fame; glory 
awaits us for aye, — 
Glory, that never is dim, shining on with 
light never ending, — 
Glory that never shall fade, never, O 



never, away . 



How 



O, it is sweet for our country to'die ! 
softly reposes 
Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the 
tears of his love. 
Wet by a mother's warm tears. They crown 

him with garlands of roses, 
. Weep, and then joyously turn, bright 
where he triumphs above. 

Not to the shades shall the youth descend, 
who for country hath perished; 
Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes 
him there with her smile; 
There, at the banquet divine, the patriot 
spirit is cherished; 
Gods love the young who ascend pure 
from the funeral pile. 

Not to Elysian fields, by the stiU, oblivious 
river; 
Not to the isles of the blest, over the 
blue, rolling sea; 
But on Olympian heights shall dwell the 
devoted forever; 
There shall assemble the good, there the 
wise, valiant, and free. 

O, then, how great for our country to die, 
in the front rank to perish. 
Firm with our breast to the foe, victory's 
shout in our ear ! 
Long they our statues shall crown, in songs 
our memory cherish; 
We shall look forth from our heaven, 
pleased the sweet music to hear. 



THE CORAL GROVE 

Deep in the wave is a coral grove. 
Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove, 



Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of 

blue, 
That never are wet with falling dew, 
But in bright and changeful beauty shine. 
Far down in the green and glassy brine. 
The floor is of sand like the mountain 

drift 
And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow; 
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift 
Their boughs, where the tides and bUlows 

flow; 
The water is calm and still below. 
For the winds and waves are absent there, 
And the sands are bright as the stars that 

glow 
In the motionless fields of upper air: 
There with its waving blade of green, 
The sea-flag streams through the silent 

water, 
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen 
To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter: 
There with a light and easy motion, 
The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, 

deep sea; 
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean 
Are bending like corn on the upland lea: 
And life, in rare and beautiful forms. 
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, 
And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of 

storms 
Has made the top of the wave his own: 
And when the ship from his fury flies. 
Where the myriad voices of ocean roar. 
When the wind-god frowns in the murky 

skies, 
And demons are waiting the wreck on 

shore ; 
Then far below, in the peaceful sea. 
The purple mullet and gold-fish rove. 
Where the waters murmur tranquilly, 
Through the bending twigs of the coral 

grove. 

NEW ENGLAND 

Hail to the land whereon we tread, 

Our fondest boast ! 
The sepulchre of mighty dead. 
The truest hearts that ever bled. 
Who sleep on glory's brightest bed, 

A fearless host: 



J 



JAMES GATES PERCIVAL — MARIA GOWEN BROOKS 71 



No slave is here ; — our unchained feet 
Walk freely, as the waves that beat 
Our coast. 

Our fathers crossed the ocean's wave 

To seek this shore; 
They left behind the coward slave 
To welter in his living grave; 
With hearts unbent, high, steady, brave, 

They sternly bore 
Such toils as meaner souls had quelled; 
But souls like these, such toils impelled 

To soar. 

Hail to the morn when first they stood 

On Bunker's height ! 
And fearless stemmed the invading flood, 
And wrote our dearest rights in blood, 
And mowed in ranks the hireling brood, 

In desperate fight: 
O, 't was a proud, exulting day. 
For even our fallen fortunes lay 

In light. 

There is no other land like thee, 

No dearer shore; 
Thou art the shelter of the free; 



The home, the port of liberty 
Thou hast been, and shalt ever be, 

Till time is o'er. 
Ere I forget to think upon 
My land, shall mother curse the son 

She bore. 

Thou art the firm, unshaken rock, 

On which we rest; 
And rising from thy hardy stock, 
Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock. 
And slavery's galling chains unlock, 

And free the oppressed: 
All who the wreath of freedom twine 
Beneath the shadow of the vine 

Are blessed. 

We love thy rude and rocky shore, 

And here we stand: 
Let foreign navies hasten o'er, 
And on our heads their fury pour. 
And peal their cannon's loudest roar, 

And storm our land: 
They still shall find, our lives are given 
To die for home ; — and leant on Heaven 

Our hand. 



St^aria oBotoen ^tooft^ 



("MARIA DEL OCCIDENTE ") 

FROM "ZOPHIEL" 

PALACE OF THE GNOMES 



High towered the palace and its massive 
pile. 
Made dubious if of nature or of art, 
So wild and so uncouth ; yet, all the 
while, 
Shaped to strange grace in every varying 
part. 

And groves adorned it, green in hue, and 
bright 
As icicles about a laurel-tree ; 
And danced about their twigs a wondrous 
light; 
Whence came that light so far beneath 
the sea ? 



Zophiel looked up to know, and to his view 
The vault scarce seemed less vast than 
that of day; 
No rocky roof was seen, a tender blue 
Appeared, as of the sky, and clouds 
about it play ; 

And, in the midst, an orb looked as 't were 
meant 
To shame the sun; it mimicked him so 
well. 
But ah ! no quickening, grateful warmth it 
sent; 
Cold as the rock beneath, the paly ra- 
diance fell. 

Within, from thousand lamps the lustre 
strays. 
Reflected back from gems about the wall; 



72 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



And from twelve dolphin shapes a fountain 
plays, 
Just in the centre of the spacious hall: 

But whether in the sunbeam formed to 

sport, 

These shapes once lived in suppleness 

and pride, 

And then, to decorate this wondrous court, 

Were stolen from the waves and petrified. 

Or, moulded by some imitative Gnome, 
And scaled all o'er with gems, they were 
but stone. 
Casting their showers and rainbows 'neath 
the dome, 
To man or angel's eye might not be 
known. 

No snowy fleece in these sad realms was 
found. 

Nor silken ball, by maiden loved so well ; 
But ranged in lightest garniture around. 

In seemly folds a shining tapestry fell. 

And fibres of asbestos, bleached in fire, 
And all with pearls and sparkling gems 
o'er-flecked, 
Of that strange court composed the rich 
attire. 
And such the cold, fair form of sad Ta- 
hathyam decked. 

Of marble white the table they surround, 
And reddest coral decked each curious 
couch, 
Which softly yielding to their forms was 
found. 
And of a surface smooth and wooing to 
the touch. 

Of simny gold and silver, like the moon, 
Here was no lack; but if the veins of 
earth, 
Torn open by man's weaker race, so soon 
Supplied the alluring hoard, or here had 
birth 

That baffling, maddening, fascinating art. 
Half told by Sprite naost mischievous, 
that he 
Might laugh to see men toil, then not im- 
part. 
The guests left unenquired: — 't is still a 
mystery. 



Here were no flowers, but a sweet odor 
breathed. 
Of amber pure, a glistening coronal. 
Of various-colored gems, each brow en- 
wreathed. 
In form of garland, for the festival. 

THE RESPITE ' 

The banquet-cups, of many a hue and shape. 

Bossed o'er with gems, were beautiful to 

view; 

But, for the madness of the vaunted grape, 

Their only draught was a pure limpid 

dew. 

To Spirits sweet ; but these half-mortal lips 

Longed for the streams that once ^n 

earth they quaffed; 

And, half in shame, Tahathyam coldly sips 

And craves excuses for the temperate 

draught. 

" Man tastes," he said, " the grape's sweet 
blood that streams 
To steep his heart when pained; when 
sorrowing he 
In wild delirium drowns the sense, and 
dreams 
Of bliss arise, to cheat his misery." 

Nor with their dews were any mingling 
sweets 
Save those, to mortal lip, of poison fell; 
No murmuring bee was heard in these re- 
treats. 
The mineral clod alone supplied their- 
hydromel. 

The Spirits while they sat, in social guise, 
Pledging each goblet with an answering 
kiss, 
Marked many a Gnome conceal his bursting 
sighs ; 
And thought death happier than a life 
like this. 

But they had music; at one ample side 
Of the vast area of that sparkling hall. 

Fringed round with gems that all the rest 
outvied. 
In form of canopy, was seen to fall 

The stony tapestry, over what at first 
An altar to some deity appeared; 



MARIA GOWEN BROOKS 



73 



But it had cost full many a year to ad- 
just 

. The limpid crystal tubes that 'neath up- 
reared 

Their different gleaming lengths; and so 
complete 
Their wondrous rangement, that a tune- 
ful Gnome 
Drew from them sounds more varied, clear, 
and sweet, ♦ 

Than ever yet had rung in any earthly 
dome. 

Loud, shrilly, liquid, soft, — at that quick 
touch 
Such modulation wooed his angel ears 
That Zophiel wondered, started from his 
couch, 
And thought upon the music of the 
spheres. 



SONG OF EGLA 

Day in melting purple dying, 
Blossoms all around me sighing, 
Fragrance from the lilies straying, 
Zephyr with my ringlets playing. 

Ye but waken my distress: 

I am sick of loneliness. 

Thou to whom I love to hearken. 
Come ere night around me darken: 
Though thy softness but deceive me, 
Say thou 'rt true, and I '11 believe thee. 
Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent: 
Let me think it innocent ! 

Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure: 
All I ask is friendship's pleasure: 
Let the shining ore lie darkling; 
Bring no gem in lustre sparkling; 

Gifts and gold are nought to me: 
I would only look on thee; 

Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling. 

Ecstasy but in revealing; 

Paint to thee the deep sensation. 

Rapture in participation. 

Yet but torture, if comprest 
In a lone unfriended breast. 

Absent still ? Ah, come and bless me ! 
Let these eyes again caress thee. 



Once, in caution, I could fly thee. 

Now I nothing could deny thee. 
In a look if death there be. 
Come, and I will gaze on thee ! 



FAREWELL TO CUBA 

Adieu, fair isle ! I love thy bowers, 
I love thy dark-eyed daughters there; 

The cool pomegranate's scarlet flowers 
Look brighter in their jetty hair. 

They praised my forehead's stainless 
white ; 

And when I thirsted, gave a draught 
From the full clustering cocoa's height, 

And smiling, blessed me as I quaffed. 

Well pleased, the kind return I gave. 
And, clasped in their embraces' twine, 

Felt the soft breeze like Lethe's wave 
Becalm this beating heart of mine. 

Why will my heart so wildly beat ? 

Say, Seraphs, is my lot too blest. 
That thus a fitful, feverish heat 

Must rifle me of health and rest ? 

Alas ! I fear my native snows — 

A clime too cold, a heart too warm — 

Alternate chills — alternate glows — 
Too fiercely threat my flower -like 
form. 

The orange-tree has fruit and flowers; 

The grenadilla, in its bloom. 
Hangs o'er its high, luxuriant bowers, 

Like fringes from a Tyrian loom. 

When the white coffee-blossoms swell. 
The fair moon full, the evening long 

I love to hear the warbling bell, 

And sun-burnt peasant's wayward 
song. 

Drive gently on, dark muleteer, 
And the light seguidilla frame; 

Fain would I listen still, to hear 
At every close thy mistress' name. 

Adieu, fair isle ! the waving palm 
Is pencilled on thy purest sky ; 

Warm sleeps the bay, the air is balm, 
And, soothed to languor, scarce a sigh 



74 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Escapes for those I love so well, 

For those I 've loved and left so long; 

On me their fondest musings dwell, 
To them alone my sighs belong. 



On, on, my bark ! blow, southern breeze ! 

No longer would I lingering stay; 
'T were better far to die with these 

Than live in pleasure far away. 



H^illiam ^Husu^sftUiSf ^ufficiibtt^ 



I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY 

I WOULD not live alway — live alway below ! 

Oh no, I '11 not linger when bidden to go : 

The days of our pilgrimage granted us 
here 

Are enough for life's woes, full enough for 
its cheer: 

Would I shrink from the path which the 
prophets of God, 

Apostles, and martyrs, so joyfully trod ? 

Like a spirit unblest, o'er the earth would I 
roam, 

While brethren and friends are all hasten- 
ing home ? 

I would not live alway: I ask not to stay 
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er 

the way; 
Where seeking for rest we but hover around, 
Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is 

found ; 
Where Hope, when she paints her gay bow 

in the air. 
Leaves its brilliance to fade in the night of 

despair. 
And joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad 

ray, 
Save the gleam of the plumage that bears 

him away. 

I would not live alway — thus fettered by 

sin. 
Temptation without and corruption within; 
In a moment of strength if I sever the 

chain, 
Scarce the victory 's mine, ere I 'm captive 

again ; 
E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with 

fears. 
And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent 

tears : 
The festival trump calls for jubilant songs, 
But my spirit her own miserere prolongs. 



I would not live alway — no, welcome the 

tomb. 
Since Jesus hath lain there I dread not its 

gloom; 
Where he deigned to sleep, I'll too bow 

my head, 
All peaceful to slumber on that hallowed 

bed. 
Then the glorious daybreak, to follow that 

night, 
The orient gleam of the angels of light, 
With their clarion call for the sleepers to 

rise 
And chant forth their matins, away to the 

skies. 

Who, who would live alway ? away from 

his God, 
Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode, 
Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the 

bright plains, 
And the noontide of glory eternally reigns; 
Where the saints of all ages in harmony 

meet. 
Their Saviour and brethren transported to 

greet. 
While the songs of salvation exultingly roll 
And the smile of the Lord is the feast of 

the soul. 

That heavenly music ! what is it I hear ? 
The notes of the harpers ring sweet in mine 

ear ! 
And see, soft unfolding those portals of 

gold. 
The King all arrayed in his beauty behold ! 
Oh give me, oh give me, the wings of a 

dove. 
To adore him — be near him — enwrapt 

with his love ; 
I but wait for the summons, I list for the 

word — 
Alleluia — Amen — evermore with the 

Lord! 



I 



MUHLENBERG — BRAIN ARD 



75 



HEAVEN'S MAGNIFICENCE 

Since o'er thy footstool here below 
Such radiant gems are strown, 

Oh, what magnificence must glow, 
My God, about thy throne ! 

So brilliant here these drops of light, 

There the full ocean rolls, how bright ! 

If night's blue curtain of the sky, 
With thousand stars inwrought, 

Hung like a royal canopy 

With glittering diamonds fraught, 

Be, Lord, thy temple's outer veil, 

What splendor at the shrine must dwell ! 



The dazzling sun at noontide hour. 
Forth from his flaming vase 

Flinging o'er earth the golden shower 
Till vale and mountain blaze, 

But shows, O Lord, one beam of thine: 

What, then, the day where thou dost 
shine ! 

Ah, how shall these dim eyes endure . 

That noon of living rays ! 
Or how my spirit, so impure. 

Upon thy brightness gaze ! 
Anoint, O Lord, anoint my sight. 
And robe me for that world of light. 



3[oJn oBartiiner Calfeinief 2&tainarD 



MR. 



MERRY'S LAMENT FOR 
"LONG TOM" 



Thy cruise is over now. 

Thou art anchored by the shore. 
And never more shalt thou 

Hear the storm around thee roar; 
Death has shaken out the sands of thy 
glass. 
Now around thee sports the whale, 
And the porpoise snuffs the gale. 
And the night-winds wake their wail, 
As they pass. 

The sea-grass round thy bier 

Shall bend beneath the tide. 
Nor tell the breakers near 

Where thy manly limbs abide ; 
But the granite rock thy tombstone shall 
be. 
Though the edges of thy grave 
Are the combings of the wave — 
Yet unheeded they shall rave 
Over thee. 

At the piping of all hands, 

When the judgment signal 's spread — 
When the islands, and the lands, 
And the seas give up their dead. 
And the south and the north shall come; 
When the sinner is dismayed. 
And the just man is afraid, 
Then heaven be thy aid, 
Poor Tom. 



THE DEEP 

There 's beauty in the deep: 
The wave is bluer than the sky; 
And though the lights shine bright on high; 
More softly do the sea-gems glow 
That sparkle in the depths below; 
The rainbow's tints are only made 
When on the waters they are laid, 
And Sun and Moon most sweetly shine 
Upon the ocean's level brine. 

There 's beauty in the deep. 

There 's music in the deep : 
It is not in the surf 's rough roar. 
Nor in the whispering, shelly shore — 
They are but earthly sounds, that tell 
How little of the sea-nymph's shell. 
That sends its loud, clear note abroad, 
Or winds its softness through the flood, 
Echoes through groves with coral gay, 
And dies, on spongy banks, away. 

There 's music in the deep. 

There 's quiet in the deep : 
Above, let tides and tempests rave, 
And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave ; 
Above, let care and fear contend 
With sin and sorrow to the end: 
Here, far beneath the tainted foam 
That frets above our peaceful home, 
We dream in joy, and wake in love. 
Nor know the rage that yells above. 

There 's quiet in the deep. 



76 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



EPITHALAMIUM 

I SAW two clouds at morning, 

Tinged with the rising sun, 
And in the dawn they floated on. 

And mingled into one: 
I thought that morning cloud was blest, 
It moved so sweetly to the west. 

I saw two summer currents 

Flow smoothly k) their meeting. 



And join their course, with silent force, 

In peace each other greeting: 
Calm was their course through banks of 

green, 
While dimpling eddies played between. 

Such be your gentle motion, 
Till life's last pulse shall beat ; 

Like summer's beam, and summer's stream, 
Float on, in joy, to meet 

A calmer sea, where storms shall cease — 

A purer sky, where all is peace. 



<Dcor0c H^a^fjingtoii SDoane 



EVENING 

Softly now the light of day 
Fades upon my sight away; 
Free from care, from labor free, 
Lord, I would commune with Thee: 

Thou, whose all-pervading eye, 
Naught escapes, without, within, 

Pardon each infirmity, 
Open fault and secret sin. 

Soon, for me, the light of day 
Shall forever pass away; 
Then, from sin and sorrow free, 
Take me, Lord, to dwell with Thee : 

Thou, who, sinless, yet hast known 

All of man's infirmity; 
Then from Thine eternal throne, 

Jesus, look with pitying eye. 



ROBIN REDBREAST 

Sweet Robin, I have heard them say 
That thou wert there upon the day 
The Christ was crowned in cruel scorn 
And bore away one bleeding thorn, — 
That so the blush upon thy breast. 
In shameful sorrow, was impressed; 
And thence thy genial sympathy 
With our redeemed humanity. 

Sweet Robin, would that I might be 
Bathed in my Saviour's blood, like thee; 
Bear in my breast, whate'er the loss, 
The bleeding blazon of the cross; 
Live ever, with thy loving mind. 
In fellowship with human kind; 
And take my pattern still from thee, 
In gentleness and constancy. 



tBilliam 55ourne Minuet ^caBotip^ 



LAMENT OF ANASTASIUS 

It was but yesterday, my love, thy little 

heart beat high, 
And I had scorned the warning voice that 

told me thou must die ; 
I saw thee move with active bound, with 

spirits light and free. 
And infant grace and beauty gave their 

glorious charm to thee. 



Upon the dewy field I saw thine early foot- 
steps fly, 

Unfettered as the matin bird that cleaves 
the radiant sky; 

And often as the simrise gale blew back 
thy shining hair. 

Thy cheek displayed the red-rose tinge 
that health had painted there. 



1 See Biographical Note, p. 814. 



DOANE— PEABODY — ALCOTT 



77 



Then, withered as my heart had been, I 

could not but rejoice 
To hear upon the morning wind the music 

of thy voice. 
Now echoing in the careless laugh, now 

melting down to tears: 
'T was like the sounds I used to hear in 

old and happier years. 

Thanks for that memory to thee, my lovely 
little boy ! 

'T is all remains of former bliss that care 
cannot destroy; 

I listened, as the mariner suspends the out- 
bound oar 

To taste the farewell gale that blows from 
off his native shore. 

I loved thee, and my heart was blessed ; but 
ere the day was spent, 

I saw thy light and graceful form in droop- 
ing illness bent, 

And shuddered as I cast a look upon the 
fainting head, 

For all the glow of health was gone, and 
life was almost fled. 

One glance upon thy marble brow made 

known that hope was vain ; 
I knew the swiftly wasting lamp would 

never light again; 
Thy cheek was pale, thy snow-white lips 

were gently thrown apart, 
And life in every passing breath seemed 

gushing from the heart. 



And, when I could not keep the tear fx'om 

gathering in my eye, 
Thy little hand pressed gently mine in token 

of reply; 
To ask one more exchange of love thy look 

was upward cast. 
And in that long and burning kiss thy 

happy spirit passed. 

I trusted I should not have lived to bid 

farewell to thee, 
And nature in my heart declares it ought 

not so to be; 
I hoped that thou within the grave my 

weary head should lay. 
And live beloved, when I was gone, for 

many a happy day. 

With trembling hand I vainly tried thy 

dying eyes to close. 
And how I envied in that hour thy calm 

and deep repose ! 
For I was left alone on earth, with pain and 

grief opprest; 
And thou wert with the sainted, where the 

weary are at rest. 

Yes ! I am left alone on earth; but I will 

not repine 
Because a spirit loved so well is earlier 

blessed than mine : 
My fate may darken as it will, I shall not 

nauch deplore. 
Since thou art where the ills of life can 

never reach thee more. 



%im^ ^tm^on %kott 



CHANNING 

Channing ! my Mentor whilst my thought 

was young, 
And I the votary of .fair liberty, — 
How hung I then upon thy glowing tongue, 
And thought of love and truth as one with 

thee! 
Thou wast the inspirer of a nobler life. 
When I with error waged unequal strife. 
And from its coils thy teaching set me free. 
Be ye, his followers, to his leading true, 
Nor privilege covet, nor the wider sway; 
But hold right onward in his loftier way, 



As best becomes, and is his rightful due. 
If learning 's yours, — gifts God doth least 

esteem, — 
Beyond all gifts was his transcendent view; 
O realize his Pentecostal dream ! 

EMERSON 

Misfortune to have lived not knowing 

thee! 
'T were not high living, nor to noblest end. 
Who, dwelling near, learned not sincerity, 
Rich friendship's ornament that still doth 

lend 



78 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



To life its consequence and propriety. 

Thy fellowship was my culture, noble 
friend : 

By the hand thou took'st me, and did'st con- 
descend 

To bring me straightway into thy fair guild; 

And life-long hath it been high compliment 

By that to have been known, and thy friend 
styled. 

Given to rare thought and to good learning 
bent; 

Whilst in my straits an angel on me smiled. 

Permit me, then, thus honored, still to be 

A scholar in thy university. 



MARGARET FULLER 

Thou, Sibyl rapt ! whose sympathetic soul 
Infused the myst'ries thy tongue failed to 

tell; 
Though from thy lips the marvellous ac- 
cents fell. 
And weird wise meanings o'er the senses 

stole. 
Through those rare cadences, with winsome 

spell ; 
Yet even in such refrainings of thy voice 
There struggled up a wailing undertone. 
That spoke thee victim of the Sisters' 

choice, — 
Charming all others, dwelling still alone. 
They left thee thus disconsolate to roam. 
And scorned thy dear, devoted life to spare. 
Around the storm-tost vessel sinking there 
The wild waves chant thy dirge and wel- 
come home; 
Survives alone thy sex's valiant plea. 
And the great heart that loved the brave 
and free. 



THOREAU 

Who nearer Nature's life would truly come 
Must nearest come to him of whom I speak; 
He all kinds knew, ■ — the vocal and the 

dumb ; 
Masterful in genius was he, and unique. 
Patient, sagacious, tender, frolicsome. 
This Concord Pan would oft his whistle take. 
And forth from wood and fen, field, hill, 

and lake, 
Trooping around him in their several guise. 
The shy inhabitants their haunts forsake: 



Then he, like -3Esop, man would satirize, 
Hold up the image wild to clearest view 
Of undiscerning manhood's puzzled eyes. 
And mocking say, " Lo ! mirrors here for 

you: 
Be true as these, if ye would be more wise." 



HAWTHORNE 

Romancer, far more coy than that coy 

sex ! 
Perchance some stroke of magic thee befell. 
Ere thy baronial keep the Muse did vex. 
Nor grant deliverance from enchanted spell, 
But tease thee all the while and sore per- 
plex. 
Till thou that wizard tale shouldst fairly 

tell. 
Better than poets in thy own clear prose. 
Painter of sin in its deep scarlet dyes, 
Thy doomsday pencil Justice doth expose, 
Hearing and judging at the dread assize; 
New England's guilt blazoning before all 

eyes. 
No other chronicler than thee she chose. 
Magician deathless ! dost thou vigil keep, 
Whilst 'neath our pines thou feignest 
deathlike sleep ? 



BARTOL 

Poet of the Pulpit, whose full-chorded lyre 
Startles the churches from their slumberg! 

late. 
Discoursing music, mixed with lofty ire 
At wrangling factions in the restless state, 
Till tingles with thy note each listening 

ear, — 
Then household charities by the friendly 

fire 
Of home, soothe all to fellowship and good 

cheer ! 
No sin escapes thy fervent eloquence. 
Yet, touching with compassion the true 

word. 
Thou leavest the trembling culprit's dark 

offence 
To the mediation of his gracious Lord. 
To noble thought and deep dost thou dis- 
pense 
Due meed of praise, strict in thy just award. 
Can other pulpits with this preacher cope ? 
I glory in thy genius, and take hope ! 



ALCOTT — THEODORE DWIGHT WOOLSEY 



79 



WENDELL PHILLIPS 

People's Attorney, servant of the Right ! 
Pleader for all shades of the solar ray, 
Complexions dusky, yellow, red, or white; 
Who, in thy country's and thy time's de- 
spite, 
Hast only questioned, What will Duty 

say? 
And followed swiftly in her narrow way: 
Tipped is thy tongue with golden elo- 
quence, 
All honeyed accents fall from off thy 

lips,— 
Each eager listener his full measure sips, 
Yet runs to waste the sparkling opulence, — 
Th6 scorn of bigots, and the worldling's 

flout. 
If Time long held thy merit in suspense, 
Hastening "repentant now, with pen de- 
vout. 
Impartial History dare not leave thee 
out. 



GARRISON 

Freedom's first champion in our fettered 

land! 
Nor politician nor base citizen 
Could gibbet thee, nor silence, nor with- 
stand. 
Thy trenchant and emancipating pen 
The patriot Lincoln snatched with steady 

hand, 
Writing his name and thine on parchment 

white, 
'Midst war's resistless and ensanguined 

flood; 
Then held that proclamation high in sight 
Before his fratricidal countrymen, — 
" Freedom henceforth throughout the land 

for all,"— 
And sealed the instrument with his own 

blood. 
Bowing his mighty strength for slavery's 

fall; 
Whilst thou, stanch friend of largest liberty, 
Survived, — its ruin and our peace to see. 



€l)eotiore E^toigfjt JSooI'^cp 



THE ECLIPSE OF FAITH 

The shapes that frowned before the eyes 
Of the early world have fled. 

And all the life of earth and skies. 
Of streams and seas, is dead. 

Forgotten is the Titan's fame, 

The dread Chimsera now 
Is but a mild innocuous flame 

Upon a mountain's brow, 
Around whose warmth its strawberry red 
The arbutus hangs and goatherds tread. 

And now has Typho spent his rage. 

The Sirens now no more 
Entice the song-struck mariner 

To give his voyage o'er. 
The sailor past Messina hies. 
And scorns the den where Scylla lies. 

Leda's twin sons no more are seen 

In battle's hottest press, 
Nor shine the wind-tost waves between 

To seamen in distress. 



The muse is but the poet's soul, 

That looked towards Helicon, 
And for its living thought divine 

Raised up a mountain throne. 

But ah ! is nought save fable slain 
In this new realm of thought ? 

Or has the shaft Primeval Truth 
And Truth's great Author sought ? 

Yes, wisdom now is built on sense; 

We measure and we weigh. 
We break and join, make rare and dense, 

And reason God away. 

The wise have probed this wondrous 
world. 

And searched the stars, and find 
All curious facts and laws revealed, 

But not Almighty mind. 

From thinking dust we mould the spheres. 
And shape earth's wondrous frame : 

If God had slept a million years, 
All things would be the same. 



8o 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



give me back a world of life, 
Something to love and trust, 

Something to quench my inward strife 
And lift me from the dust. 

1 cannot live with nature dead. 
Mid laws and causes blind; 

Powerless on earth, or overhead, 
To trace the all-guiding mind; 

Then boast that I have found the keys 
That time and space unlock. 

That snatch from heaven its mysteries, 
Its fear from the earthquake shock. 

Better the instinct of the brute 

That feels its God afar, 
Than reason, to his praises mute, 

Talking with every star. 



Better the thousand deities 

That swarmed in Greece of yore. 

Than thought that scorns all mysteries 
And dares all depths to explore. 

Better is childhood's thoughtless trust 
Than manhood's daring scorn; 

The fear that creeps along the dust 
Than doubt in hearts forlorn. 

And knowledge, if it cost so dear. 

If such be reason's day, 
I '11 lose the pearl without a tear, 

And grope mj star-lit way. 

And be the toils of wisdom curst 
If such the meed we earn ; 

If freezing pride and doubt are nurst, 
And faith forbid to burn. 



%lhett <0orton <Btm\e 



THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET 

O'ek a low couch the setting sun had 

thrown its latest ray. 
Where in his last strong agony a dying 

warrior lay, 
The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose frame 

had ne'er been bent 
By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron 

strength had spent. 

" They come around me here, and say my 

days of life are o'er, 
That I shall mount my noble steed and 

lead my band no more ; 
They come, and to my beard they dare to 

tell me now, that I, 
Their own liege lord and master born, — 

that I, ha ! ha ! must die. 

*^ And what is death ? I 've dared him oft 

before the Paynim spear, — 
Think ye he 's entered at my gate, has 

come to seek me here ? 
I 've met him, faced him, scorned him, 

when the fight was raging hot, — 
I '11 try his might — I '11 brave his power; 

defy, and fear him not. 



" Ho ! sound the tocsin from my tower, and 
fire the culverin, — 

Bid each retainer arm with speed, — call 
every vassal in, 

Up with my banner on the wall, — the ban- 
quet board prepare ; 

Throw wide the portal of my hall, and 
bring my armor there ! " 

An hundred hands were busy then — the 

banquet forth was spread — 
And rung the heavy oaken floor with many 

a martial tread. 
While from the rich, dark tracery along 

the vaulted wall, 
Lights gleamed on harness, plume, and 

spear, o'er the proud old Gothic 

hall. 

Fast hurrying through the outer gate the 

mailed retainers poured. 
On through the portal's frowning arch, and 

thronged around the board. 
While at its head, within his dark, carved 

oaken chair of state. 
Armed cap-a-pie, stern Rudiger, with 

girded falchion, sate. 



GREENE— PINKNEY 



" Fill every beaker up, my men, pour forth 

the cheering wine; 
There 's life and strength in every drop, — 

thanksgiving to the vine ! 
Are ye all there, my vassals true ? — mine 

eyes are waxing dim; 
Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each 

goblet to the brim. 

" You 're there, but yet I see ye not. 

Draw forth each trusty sword 
And let me hear your faithful steel clash 

once around my board; 
I hear it faintly : — Louder yet ! — What 

clogs my heavy breath ? 
Up all, and shout for Rudiger, ' Defiance 

unto Death ! ' " 



Bowl rang to bowl — steel clang to steel — 

and rose a deafening cry 
That made the torches flare around, and 

shook the flags on high : — 
" Ho ! cravens, do ye fear him ? — Slaves, 

traitors ! have ye flown ? 
Ho ! cowards, have ye left me to meet him 

here alone ! 

"But I defy him: — let him come ! " Down 

rang the massy cup, 
While from its sheath the ready blade came 

flashing half way up; 
And with the black and heavy plumes 

scarce trembling on his head. 
There in his dark, carved oaken chair Old 

Rudiger sat, — dead. 



€titDai:ti Coate ^inknep 



A HEALTH 

I FILL this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon; 
To whom the better elements 

And kindly stars have given 
A form so fair, that, like the air, 

'T is less of earth than heaven. 

Her every tone is music's own. 

Like those of morning birds, 
And something more than melody 

Dwells ever in her words; 
The coinage of her heart are they, 

And from her lips each flows 
As one may see the burdened bee 

Forth issue from the rose. 

Affections are as thoughts to her, 

The measures of her liours; 
Her feelings have the fragrancy. 

The freshness of young flowers; 
And lovely passions, changing oft, 

So fill her, she appears 
The image of themselves by turns, — 

The idol of past years ! 

Of her bright face one glance will trace 
A picture on the brain, 



And of her voice in echoing hearts 

A sound must long remain; 
But memory, such as mine of her, 

So very much endears. 
When death is nigh my latest sigh 

Will not be life's, but hers. 

I fill this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon — 
Her health ! and would on earth there 
stood 

Some more of such a frame, 
That life might be all poetry, 

And'weariness a name. 



SONG 

We break the glass, whose sacred wine 

To some beloved health we drain, 
Lest future pledges, less divine. 

Should e'er the hallowed toy profane; 
And thus I broke a heart that poured 

Its tide of feelings out for thee, 
In draught, by after-times deplored, 

Yet dear to memory. 

But still the old, impassioned ways 
And habits of my mind remain, 



82 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



And still unhappy light displays 


With looks, whose brightness well might 


Thine image chambered in my brain, 


make 


And still it looks as when the hours 


Of darker nights a day. 


Went by like flights of singing birds, 
Or that soft chain of spoken flowers 
And airy gems, — thy words. 


VOTIVE SONG 


A SERENADE 


I BURN no incense, hang no wreath, 
On this thine early tomb: 


Look out upon the stars, my love. 


Such cannot cheer the place of death, 


And shame them with thine eyes. 


But only mock its gloom. 


On which, than on the lights above. 


Here odorous smoke and breathing flower 


There hang more destinies. 


No grateful influence shed; 


Night's beauty is the harmony 
Of blending shades and light; 


They lose their perfume and their power, 
When offered to the dead. 


Then, lady, up, — look out, and be 




A sister to the night ! 


And if, as is the Afghaun's creed. 


Sleep not ! thine image wakes for aye 


The spirit may return, 
A disembodied sense to feed, 


Within my watching breast: 


On fragrance, near its urn, — 


Sleep not ! from her soft sleep should fly 


It is enough that she, whom thou 


Who robs all hearts of rest. 


Didst love in living years. 


Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break. 


Sits desolate beside it now. 


And make this darkness gay 


And fall these heavy tears. 



4B»eotge ^ope ^otti0 



WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE! 

Woodman, spare that tree ! 

Touch not a single bough ! 
In youth it sheltered me. 

And I '11 protect it now. 
'Twas my forefather's hand 

That placed it near his cot; 
There, woodman, let it stand, 

Thy axe shall harm it not. 

That old familiar tree. 

Whose glory and renown 
Are spread o'er land and sea — 

And wouldst thou hew it down ? 
Woodman, forbear thy stroke ! 

Cut not its earth-bound ties; 
Oh, spare that aged oak 

Now towering to the skies ! 

When but an idle boy, 

I sought its grateful shade; 

In all their gushing joy 

Here, too, my sisters played. 



My mother kissed me here ; 

My father pressed my hand — 
Forgive this foolish tear. 

But let that old oak stand. 

My heart-strings round thee cling, 

Close as thy bark, old friend ! 
Here shall the wild-bird sing. 

And still thy branches bend. 
Old tree ! the storm still brave ! 

And, woodman, leave the spot| 
While I 've a hand to save. 

Thy axe shall harm it not. 



WE WERE BOYS TOGETHER 

We were boys together, 

And never can forget 
The school-house near the heather. 

In childhood where we met; 
The humble home to memory dear, 

Its sorrows and its joys; 



GEORGE POPE MORRIS 



^3 



Where woke the transient smile or tear, 


MY MOTHER'S BIBLE 


When you and I were boys. 






This book is all that 's left me now ! 


We were youths together, 


Tears will unbidden starts — 


And castles built in air, 


With faltering lip and throbbing brow 


Tour heart was like a feather, 


I press it to my heart. 


And mine weighed down with care; 


For many generations past. 


To you came wealth with manhood's prime, 


Here is our family tree ; 


To me it brought alloys — 


My mother's hands this Bible clasped, 


Foreshadowed in the primrose time, 


She, dying, gave it me. 


When you and I were boys. 






Ah ! well do I remember those 


We 're old men together: 


Whose names these records bear; 


The friends we loved of yore, 


Who round the hearth-stone used to 


With leaves of autumn weather, 


close 


Are gone forevermore. 


After the evening prayer. 


How blest to age the impulse given, 


And speak of what these pages said. 


The hope time ne'er destroys. 


In tones my heart would thrill ! 


Which led our thoughts from earth to 


Though they are with the silent dead, 


heaven 


Here are they living still. 


When you and I were boys ! 






My father read this holy book 




To brothers, sisters dear; 


NEAR THE LAKE 


How calm was my poor mother's look 




Who leaned God's word to hear ! 


Near the lake where drooped the willow. 


Her angel face — I see it yet ! 


Long time ago ! 


What vivid memories come ! 


Where the rock threw back the billow. 


Again that little group is met 


Brighter than snow. 


Within the halls of home ! 


Dwelt a maid, beloved and cherished 




By high and low; 


Thou truest friend man ever knew, 


But with autumn's leaf she perished, 


Thy constancy I 've tried ; 


Long time ago ! 


Where all were false I found thee true, 




My counsellor and guide. 


Rock and tree and flowing water. 


The mines of earth no treasures give 


Long time ago ! 


That could this volume buy: 


Bee and bird and blossom taught her 


In teaching me the way to live, 


Love's spell to know. 


It taught me how to die. 


While to my fond words she listened. 




Murmuring low, 




Tenderly her dove-eyes glistened. 




Long time ago ! 


WHERE HUDSON'S WAVE 


Mingled were our hearts forever. 


Where Hudson's wave o'er silvery sands 


Long time ago ! 


Winds through the hills afar, 


Can I now forget her ? — Fever ! 


Old Cronest like a monarch stands. 


No — lost one — no ! 


Crowned with a single star ! 


To her grave these tears are given, 


And there, amid the billowy swells 


Ever to flow: 


Of rock-ribbed, cloud-capped earth, 


She 's the star I missed from heaven, 


My fair and gentle Ida dwells. 


Long time ago ! 


A nymph of mountain-birth. 



84 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



The snow-flake that the cliff receives, 

The diamonds of the showers, 
Spring's tender blossoms, buds, and 
leaves, 

The sisterhood of flowers, 
Mom's early beam, eve's balmy breeze, 

Her purity define; 
Yet Ida 's dearer far than these 

To this fond breast of mine. 

My heart is on the hills. The shades 

Of night are on my brow: 
Ye pleasant haunts and quiet glades, 

My soul is with you now ! 
I bless the star-crowned highlands where 

My Ida's footsteps roam: 
O for a falcon's wing to bear 

Me onward to my home ! 



JEANNIE MARSH 

Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley, 
At whose call the muses rally; 

Of all the nine none so divine 
As Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley. 
She minds me of her native scenes. 

Where she was born among the cherries; 
Of peaches, plums, and nectarines. 

Pears, apricots, and ripe strawberries. 

Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley, 
In whose name the muses rally; 

Of all the nine none so divine 
As Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley. 
A sylvan nymph of queenly grace, 

A goddess she in form and feature; 
The sweet expression of the place, 

A dimple in the smile of nature. 



(BeotQc SDeni^on ^untkt 



MEMORIES 

Once more, once more, my Mary dear, 

I sit by that lone stream, 
Where first within thy timid ear 

I breathed love's burning dream. 
The birds we loved still tell their tale 

Of music, on each spray, 
And still the wild-rose decks the vale — 

But thou art far away. 

In vain thy vanished form I seek. 

By wood and stream and dell. 
And tears of anguish bathe my cheek 

Where tears of rapture fell; 
And yet beneath these wild-wood bowers 

Dear thoughts my soul employ. 
For in the memories of past hours 

There is a mournful joy. 

Upon the air thy gentle words 

Around me seemed to thrill, 
Like sounds upon the wind-harp's chords 

When all the winds are still, 
Or like the low and soul-like swell 

Of that wild spirit-tone. 
Which haunts the hollow of the bell 

When its sad chime is done. 



I seem to hear thee speak my name 

In sweet low murmurs now; 
I seem to feel thy breath of flame 

Upon my cheek and brow; 
On my cold lips I feel thy kiss, 

Thy heart to mine is laid — 
Alas, that such a dream of bliss 

Like other dreams must fade ! 



NEW ENGLAND 

FOR A CELEBRATION IN KENTUCKY OF 
THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS 

Clime of the brave ! the high heart's 
home. 

Laved by the wild and stormy sea ! 
Thy children, in this far-off land. 

Devote to-day their hearts to thee; 
Our thoughts, despite of space and time, 
To-day are in our native clime. 
Where passed our sinless years, and where 
Our infant heads first bowed in prayer. 

Stern land ! we love thy woods and rocks. 
Thy rushing streams, thy winter glooms. 

And Memory, like a pilgrim gray, 
Kneels at thy temples and thy tombs: 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



85 



The thoughts of these, where'er we dwell, 
Come o'er us like a holy spell, 
A star to light our path of tears, 
A rainbow on the sky of years. 

Above thy col^i and rocky breast 
The tempest sweeps, the night-wind wails, 



But Virtue, Peace, and Love, like birds 
Are nestled mid thy hills and vales; 
And Glory, o'er each plain and glen, 
Walks with thy free and iron men, 
And lights her sacred beacon still 
On Bennington and Bunker Hill. 



(VARIOUS POEMS BELONGING TO THIS DIVISION) 



HOME, SWEET HOME! 

Mid pleasures and palaces though we may 

roam, 
Be it ever so humble, there 's no place like 

home ; 
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us 

there, 
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met 

with elsewhere. 
Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home ! 
There 's no place like Home ! there 's no 

place like Home ! 

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in 

vain; 
O, give me my lowly thatched cottage 

again ! 
The birds singing gayly, that came at my 

call, — 
Give me them, — and the peace of mind, 

dearer than all ! 
Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home ! 
There 's no place like Home ! there 's no 

place like Home ! 

How sweet 't is to sit 'neath a fond father's 

smile, 
And the cares of a mother to soothe and 

beguile ! 
Let others delight mid new pleasures to 

roam. 
But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of 

home ! 
Home ! Home ! sweet, sweet Home ! 
There 's no place like Home ! there 's no 

place like Home ! 



To thee I '11 return, overburdened with care; 
The heart's dearest solace will smile on me 

there ; 
No more from that cottage again will I 

roam; 
Be it ever so humble, there 's no place like 

home. 
Home ! Home ! sweet, sweet Home ! 
There 's no place like Home ! there 's no 

place like Home ! 

John Howard Payne 



EXHORTATION TO PRAYER 

Not on a prayerless bed, not on a prayer- 
less bed 
Compose thy weary limbs to rest; 
For they alone are blest 
With balmy sleep 
Whom angels keep; 
Nor, though by care opprest. 
Or anxious sorrow, 
Or thought in many a coil perplexed 
For coming morrow, 
Lay not thy head 
On prayerless bed. 

For who can tell, when sleep thine eyes 
shall close. 
That earthly cares and woes 
To thee may e'er return ? 
Arouse, my soul ! 
Slumber control. 
And let thy lamp burn brightly; 

So shall thine eyes discern 
Things pure and sightly; 
Taught by the Spirit, learn 



86 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Never on prayerless bed 
To lay thine unblest head. 

Hast thou no pining want, or wish, or care, 
That calls for holy prayer ? 
Has thy day been so bright 

That in its flight 
There is no trace of sorrow ? 
And thou art sure to-morrow 
Will be like this, and more 
Abundant ? Dost thou yet lay up thy store 
And still make plans for more ? 
Thou fool ! this very night 
Thy soul may wing its flight. 



Hast 



being than myself more 



thou no 
dear, 

That ploughs the ocean deep, 
And when storms sweep 

The wintry, lowering sky, 
For whom thou wak'st and weepest ? 
Oh, when thy pangs are deepest. 
Seek then the covenant ark of prayer; 
For He that slumbereth not is there — 
His ear is open to thy cry. 
Oh, then, on prayerless bed 
Lay not thy thoughtless head. 

Arouse thee, weary soul, nor yield to slum- 
ber, 
Till in communion blest 
With the elect ye rest — 
Those souls of countless number; 
And with them raise 
The note of praise. 
Reaching from earth to heaven — 
Chosen, redeemed, forgiven; 
So lay thy happy head. 
Prayer-crowned, on blessed bed. 

Margaret Mercer 



FORGIVENESS OF SINS A JOY 
UNKNOWN TO ANGELS 

Trembling before thine awful throne, 
O Lord ! in dust my sins I own: 
Justice and Mercy for my life 
Contend ! — Oh, smile, and heal the strife ! 

The Saviour smiles ! Upon my soul 
New tides of hope tumultuous roll: 
His voice proclaims my pardon found, 
Seraphic transport wings the sound ! 



Earth has a joy unknown in heaven, — 
The new-born peace of sin forgiven ! 
Tears of such pure and deep delight, 
Ye angels ! never dimmed your sight. 

Ye saw of old on chaos rise 
The beauteous pillars of the skies; 
Ye know where morn exulting springs, 
And evening folds her drooping wings. 

Bright heralds of the Eternal Will, 
Abroad his errands ye fulfil; 
Or, throned in floods of beamy day, 
Symphohious in his presence play. 

Loud is the song, — the heavenly plain 
Is shaken with the choral strain; 
And dying echoes, floating far. 
Draw music from each chiming star. 

But I amid your choirs shall shine. 
And all your knowledge shall be mine; 
Ye on your harps must lean to hear 
A secret chord that mine will bear ! 

Augustus Lucas Hillhouse 



THE CROSSED SWORDS ^ 

Swords crossed, — but not in strife ! 
The chiefs who drew them, parted by the 

space 
Of two proud countries' quarrel, face to 
face 
Ne'er stood for death or life. 

Swords crossed that never met 
While nerve was in the hands that wielded 

them; 
Hands better destined a fair family stem 

On these free shores to set. 

Kept crossed by gentlest bands ! 
Emblems no more of battle, but of peace; 
And proof how loves can grow and wars 
can cease. 

Their once stern symbol stands. 

It smiled first on the array 
Of marshalled books and friendliest com- 
panies ; 
And here a history among histories. 

It still shall smile for aye. 



1 See BioGEAPHiCAii Note, p. 7G3. 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



87 



See that thou memory keep 
Of him the firm commander; and that other, 
The stainless judge; and him our peerless 
brother, — 

All fallen now asleep. 

Yet more: a lesson teach, 
To cheer the patriot-soldier in his course, 
That Right shall triumph still o'er insolent 
Force : 

That be your silent speech. 

Oh, be prophetic too ! 
And may those nations twain, as sign and seal 
Of endless amity, hang up their steel 

As we these weapons do ! 

The archives of the Past, 
So smeared with blots of hate and bloody 

wrong. 
Pining for peace, and sick to wait so long. 
Hail this meek cross at last. 

Nathaniel Langdon Frothingham 

LAKE SUPERIOR 

" Father of lakes ! " thy waters bend 
Beyond the eagle's utmost view, 

When, throned in heaven, he sees thee send 
Back to the sky its world of blue. 

Boundless and deep, the forests weave 
Their twilight shade thy borders o'er. 

And threatening cliffs, like giants, heave 
Their rugged forms along thy shore. 

Pale silence, mid thy hollow caves, 
With listening ear, in sadness broods ; 

Or startled echo, o'er thy waves. 

Sends the hoarse wolf-notes of thy woods. 

Nor can the light canoes, that glide 
Across thy breast like things of air, 

Chase from thy lone and level tide 
The spell of stillness deepening there. 

Yet round this waste of wood and wave. 
Unheard, unseen, a spirit lives. 

That, breathing o'er each rock and cave, 
To all a wild, strange aspect gives. 

The thunder-riven oak, that flings 
Its grisly arms athwart the sky, 

A sudden, startling image brings 
To the lone traveller's kindled eye. 



The gnarled and braided boughs, that show 
Their dim forms in the forest shade. 

Like wrestling serpents seem, and throw 
Fantastic horrors through the glade. 

The very echoes round this shore 

Have caught a strange and gibbering 
tone ; 

For they have told the war-whoop o'er, 
Till the wild chorus is their own. 

Wave of the wilderness, adieu ! 

Adieu, ye rocks, ye wilds, ye woods ! 
Roll on, thou element of blue, 

And fill these awful solitudes ! 

Thou hast no tale to tell of man ; 

God is thy theme. Ye sounding caves, 
Whisper of him whose mighty plan 

Deems as a bubble all your waves ! 

Samuel Griswold Goodrich 



THE HOUR OF PEACEFUL REST 

There is an hour of peaceful rest 
To mourning wanderers given; 
There is a joy for souls distrest, 
A balm for every wounded breast, 
'T is found alone in heaven. 

There is a soft, a downy bed. 

Far from these shades of even — 
A couch for weary mortals spread. 
Where they may rest the aching head, 
And find repose, in heaven. 

There is a home for weary souls 

By sin and sorrow driven; 
When tossed on life's tempestuous shoals. 
Where storms arise, and ocean rolls. 

And all is drear but heaven. 

There faith lifts up her cheerful eye, 

To brighter prospects given; 
And views the tempest passing by, 
The evening shadows quickly fly, 

And all serene in heaven. 

There fragrant flowers immortal bloom, 

And joys supreme are given; 
There rays divine disperse the gloom: 
Beyond the confines of the tomb 

Appears the dawn of heaven. 

William Bingham Tappan 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD— DIVISION I 



SONG OF THE ELFIN STEERS- 
MAN 

One elf, I trow, is diving now 

For the small pearl; and one, 
The honey-bee for his bag he 

Goes chasing in the sun; 
And one, the knave, has pilfered from 

The nautilus his boat, 
And takes his idle pastime where 

The water-lilies float. 

And some the mote, for the gold of his coat, 

By the light of the will-o'-wisp follow; 
And others, they trip where the alders dip 

Their leaves in the watery hollow; 
And one is with the firefly's lamp 

Lighting his love to bed: 
Sprites, away ! elf and fay, 

And see tl^m hither sped. 

Haste ! hither whip them with this end 

Of spider's web — anon 
The ghost will have fled to bis grave-bed, 

And the bat winked in the sun. 
Haste ! for the ship, till the moon dip 

Her horn, I did but borrow; 
And crowing cocks are fairy clocks, 

That mind us of to-morrow. 

The summer moon will soon go down, 

And the day-star dim her horn, 
O blow, then, blow, till not a wave 

Leap from the deep unshorn ! 
Blow, sweep their white tops into mist. 

As merrily we roam. 
Till the wide sea one bright sheet be. 

One sheet of fire and foam. 

Blow, till the sea a bubble be, 

And toss it to the sky, — 
Till the sands we tread of the ocean-bed. 

As the summer fountains dry. 
The upper shelves are ours, my elves. 

Are ours, and soon the nether 
With sea-flowers we shall sprinkled see. 

And pearls like dew-drops gather. 

The summer moon will soon go down. 

And then our course is up; 
Our frigate then the cockle-shell. 

Our boat the bean-flower cup. 
Sprites away ! elf and fay. 

From thicket, lake, and hollow; 



The blind bat, look ! flits to his nook, 
And we must quickly follow. 

Ha ! here they come, skimming the foam, 

A gallant crew. But list ! 
I hear the crow of the cock — O blow, 

Till the sea-foam drift like mist. 
Fairies, haste ! flood and blast 

Quickly bring, and stay 
The moon's horn — look ! to his nook 

The blind bat flits — a wa.v ! 



away 



George Hill 



THE DAUGHTER OF MENDOZA 

O LEND to me, sweet nightingale, 

Your music by the fountain. 
And lend to me your cadences, 

O river of the mountain ! 
That I may sing my gay brunette, 
A diamond spark in coral set. 
Gem for a prince's coronet — 

The daughter of Mendoza. 

How brilliant is the morning star, 
The evening star how tender, — 
The light of both is in her eyes. 

Their softness and their splendor. 
But for the lash that shades their light 
They were too dazzling for the sight. 
And when she shuts them, all is night — 
The daughter of Mendoza. 

O ever bright and beauteous one, 

Bewildering and beguiling, 
The lute is in thy silvery tones, 

The rainbow in thy smiling; 
And thine is, too, o'er hill and dell. 
The bounding of the young gazelle. 
The arrow's flight and ocean's swell — 

Sweet daughter of Mendoza ! 

What though, perchance, we no more 
meet, — 

What though too soon we sever ? 
Thy form will float like emerald light 

Before my vision ever. 
For who can see and then forget 
The glories of my gay brunette — 
Thou art too bright a star to set, 

Sweet daughter of Mendoza ! 

MiRABEAU Bonaparte Lamar 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



89 



THE GREEN ISLE OF LOVERS 

They say that, afar in the land of the 

west, 
Where the bright golden sun sinks in glory 

to rest, 
Mid ferns where the hunter ne'er ventured 

to tread, 
A fair lake unruffled and sparkling is 

spread ; 
Where, lost in his course, the rapt Indian 

discovers, 
In distance seen dimly, the green Isle of 

Lovers. 

There verdure fades never; immortal in 
bloom. 

Soft waves the magnolia its groves of per- 
fume; 

And low bends the branch with rich fruit- 
age depressed, 

All glowing like gems in the crowns of the 
east; 

There the bright eye of nature in mild 
glory hovers; 

'T is the land of the sunbeam, — the green 
Isle of Lovers ! 

Sweet strains wildly float on the breezes 
that kiss 

The calm-flowing lake round that region of 
bliss 

Where, wreathing their garlands of ama- 
ranth, fair choirs 

Glad measures still weave to the sound 
that inspires 

The dance and the revel, mid forests that 
cover 

On high with their shade the green Isle of 
the Lover. 

But fierce as the snake, with his eyeballs 
of fire, 

When his scales are all brilliant and glow- 
ing with ire. 

Are the warriors to all save the maids of 
their isle. 

Whose law is their will, and whose life is 
their smile; 

From beauty there valor and strength are 
not rovers. 

And peace reigns supreme in the green 
Isle of Lovers, 



And he who has sought to set foot on its 
shore, 

In mazes perplexed, has beheld it no 
more ; 

It fleets on the vision, deluding the view. 

Its banks still retire as the hunters pur- 
sue; 

O ! who in this vain world of woe shall dis- 
cover 

The home undisturbed, the green Isle of 
the Lover ! 

Robert Charles Sands 



" THE LONELY BUGLE GRIEVES "^ 

FROM AN " ODE ON THE CELEBRATION 
OF THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL, 
JUNE 17, 1825 " 

The trump hath blown. 
And now upon that reeking hill 
Slaughter rides screaming on the vengeful 
ball; 
While with terrific signal shrill, 
The vultures, from their bloody eyries 
flown, 
Hang o'er them like a pall. 
Now deeper roll the maddening drums. 
And the mingling host like ocean heaves: 
While from the midst a horrid wailing 
comes. 
And high above the fight the lonely bugle 
grieves ! 

Grenville Mellen 



THE WORLD I AM PASSING 
THROUGH 

Few, in the days of early j^outh. 
Trusted like me in love and truth. 
I 've learned sad lessons from the years; 
But slowly, and with many tears; 
For God made me to kindly view 
The world that I was passing through. 

How little did I once believe 

That friendly tones could e'er deceive ! 

That kindness, and forbearance long, 

Might meet ingratitude and wrong ! 

I could not help but kindly view 

The world that I was passing throughc 



See page 505. 



90 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



And though I 've learned some souls are 

base, 
I would not, therefore, hate the race; 
I still would bless my fellow men, 
And trust them, thougJi deceived again. 
God help me still to kindly view 
The world that I am passing through ! 

Through weary conflicts 1 have passed, 
And struggled into rest at last; 
Such rest as when the rack has broke 
A joint, or nerve, at every stroke. 
The wish survives to kindly view 
The world that I am passing through. 

From all that fate has brought to me 

I strive to learn humility. 

And trust in Him who rules above. 

Whose universal law is love. 

Thus only can I kindly view 

The world that I am passing through. 

When I approach the setting sun, 
And feel my journey nearly done, 
May earth be veiled in genial light, 
And her last smile to me seem bright ! 
Help me till then to kindly view 
The world that I am passing through ! 

And all who tempt a trusting heart 

From faith and hope to drift apart, — 

May they themselves be spared the pain 

Of losing power to trust again ! 

God help us all to kindly view 

The world that we are passing through ! 

Lydia Maria Child 



EVENING HYMN 

Slowly by God's hand unfurled, 
Down around the weary world 
Falls the darkness; oh, how still 
Is the working of Thy will ! 

Mighty Maker ! Here am I, — 
Work in me as silently. 
Veil the day's distracting sights, 
Show me heaven's eternal lights. 

From the darkened sky come forth 
Countless stars, a wondrous birth ! 
So may gleams of glory dart 
Through the dim abyss, my heart; 

Living worlds to view be brought 
In the boundless realms of thought, 
High and infinite desires. 
Burning like those upper fires. 

Holy truth, eternal right. 
Let them break upon my sight, 
Let them shine unclouded, still, 
And with light my being fill. 

Thou art there. Oh, let me know, 
Thou art here within me too; 
Be the perfect peace of God 
Here as there now shed abroad. 

May my soul attuned be 
To that perfect harmony. 
Which, beyond the power of sound. 
Fills the universe around. 

William Henry Furness 



DIVISION II 

(EMERSON, LONGFELLOW, WHITTIER, POE, HOLMES, AND OTHERS) 



ll!alpf) H^altio €mcrj^on 



EACH AND ALL 

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked 

clown 
Of thee from the hill-top looking down ; 
The heifer that lows in the upland farm. 
Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm; 



The sexton, tolling his bell at noon. 
Deems not that great Napoleon 
Stops his horse, and lists with delight, 
Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine 

height ; 
Nor knowest thou what argument 
Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 



91 



All are needed by each one; 

Nothing is fair or good alone. 

I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, 

Singing at dawn on the alder bough; 

I brought him home, in his nest, at even; 

He sings the song, but it cheers not now, 

For I did not bring home the river and 
sky; 

He sang to my ear, — they sang to my 
eye. 

The delicate shells lay on the shore; 

The bubbles of the latest wave 

Fresh pearls to their enamel gave, 

And the bellowing of the savage sea 

Greeted their safe escape to me. 

I wiped away the weeds and foam, 

I fetched my sea-born treasures home; 

But the poor, unsightly,, noisome things 

Had left their beauty on the shore 

With the sun and the sand and the wild up- 
roar. 

The lover watched his graceful maid, 

As mid the virgin train she strayed. 

Nor knew her beauty's best attire 

Was woven still by the snow-white choir. 

At last she came to his hermitage, 

Like the bird from the woodlands to the 
cage; 

The gay enchantment was undone, 

A gentle wife, but fairy none. 

Then I said, "I covet truth; 

Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat; 

I leave it behind with thegames of youth: " 

As I spoke, beneath my feet 

The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, 

Running over the club-moss burrs; 

I inhaled the violet's breath; 

Around me stood the oaks and firs; 

Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground; 

Over me soared the eternal sky. 

Full of light and of deity; 

Again I saw, again I heard. 

The rolling river, the morning bird; 

Beauty through my senses stole; 

I yielded myself to the perfect whole. 



THE PROBLEM 

I LIKE a church ; I like a cowl ; 

I love a prophet of the soul ; 

And on my heart monastic aisles 

Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles: 

Yet not for all his faith can see 

Would I that cowled churchman be. 



Why should the vest on him allure. 
Which I could not on me endure ? 

Not from a vain or shallow thought 

His awful Jove young Phidias brought; 

Never from lips of cunning fell 

The thrilling Delphic oracle; 

Out from the heart of nature rolled 

The burdens of the Bible old; 

The litanies of nations came, 

Like the volcano's tongue of flame, 

Up from the burning core below, — 

The canticles of love and woe: 

The hand that rounded Peter's dome 

And groined the aisles of Christian Rome 

Wrought in a sad sincerity; 

Himself from God he could not free; 

He builded better than he knew; 

The conscious stone to beauty grew. 

Kuowst thou what wove yon woodbird's 

nest 
Of leaves and feathers from her breast ? 
Or how the fish outbuilt her shell. 
Painting with morn each annual cell ? 
Or how the sacred pine-tree adds 
To her old leaves new myriads ? 
Such and so grew these holy piles, 
Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. 
Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, 
As the best gem upon h'^r zone, 
And Morning opes with haste her lids 
To gaze upon the Pyramids; 
O'er England's abbeys bends the sky, 
As on its friends, with kindred eye ; 
For out of Thought's interior sphere 
These wonders rose to upper air; 
And Nature gladly gave them place, 
Adopted them into her race. 
And granted them an equal date 
With Andes and with Ararat. 

These temples grew as grows the grass; 

Art might obey, but not surpass. 

The passive Master lent his hand 

To the vast soul that o'er him planned; 

And the same power that reared the shrine 

Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. 

Ever the fiery Pentecost 

Girds with one flame the countless host. 

Trances the heart through chanting choirs, 

And through the priest the mind inspires. 

The word unto the prophet spoken 

Was writ on tables yet unbroken; 

The word by seers or sibyls told, 



92 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD— DIVISION II 



In groves of oak, or fanes of gold, 
Still floats upon the morning wind, 
Still whispers to the willing mind. 
One accent of the Holy Ghost 
The heedless world hath never lost. 
I know what say the fathers wise, — 
The Book itself before me lies, 
Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, 
And he who blent both in his line. 
The younger Golden Lips or mines, 
Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines. 
His words are music in my ear, 
I see his cowled portrait dear; 
And yet, for all his faith could see, 
I would not the good bishop be. 



THE RHODORA 

ON BEING ASKED WHENCE IS THE 
FLOWER 

In May, when sea-winds pierced our soli- 
tudes, 
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, 
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp 

nook, 
To please the desert and the sluggish brook. 
The purple petals, fallen in the pool, 
Made the black water with their beauty 

gay; _ _ 

Here might the red-bird come his plumes 

to cool. 
And court the flower that cheapens his 

array. 
Rhodora ! if the sages ask thee why 
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, 
Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made 

for seeing. 
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: 
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose ! 
I never thought to ask, I never knew: 
But, in my simple ignorance, suppose 
The self-same Power that brought me 

there brought you. 



THE HUMBLE-BEE 

Burly, dozing humble-bee, 
Where thou art is clime for me. 
Let them sail for Porto Rique, 
Far-off heats through seas to seek; 
I will follow thee alone, 
Thou animated torrid-zone 1 



Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, 
Let me chase thy waving lines; 
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 
Singing over shrubs and vines. 

Insect lover of the sun, 
Joy of thy dominion ! 
Sailor of the atmosphere; 
Swimmer through the waves of air; 
Voyager of light and noon; 
Epicurean of June ; 
Wait, I prithee, till I come 
Within earshot of thy hum, — 
All without is martyrdom. 

When the south wind, in May days, 

With a net of shining haze 

Silvers the horizon wall. 

And with softness touching all. 

Tints the human countenance 

With the color of romance, 

And infusing subtle heats, 

Turns the sod to violets. 

Thou, in sunny solitudes, 

Rover of the underwoods, 

The green silence dost displace 

With thy mellow, breezy bass. 

Hot midsummer's petted crone, 

Sweet to me thy drowsy tone 

Tells of countless sunny hours. 

Long days, and solid banks of flowers; 

Of gulfs of sweetness without bound 

In Indian wildernesses found; 

Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure. 

Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. 

Aught unsavory or unclean 
Hath my insect never seen; 
But violets and bilberry bells, 
Maple-sap and daffodels. 
Grass with green flag half-mast high, 
Succory to match the sky. 
Columbine with horn of honey, 
Scented fern and agrimony, 
Clover, catchfly, '•'dder's-tongue 
And brier-roses, dwelt among; 
All beside was unknown waste. 
All was picture as he passed. 

Wiser far than human seer, 
Yellow-breeched philosopher 
Seeing only what is fair. 
Sipping only what is sweet. 
Thou dost mock at fate and care, 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 



93 



Leave the chaff and take the wheat. 
When the fierce northwestern blast 
Cools sea and land so far and fast, 
Thou already slumberest deep; 
Woe and want thou canst outsleep; 
Want and woe, which torture us, 
Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 



THE SNOW-STORM 

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky. 
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the 

fields, 
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air 
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the 

heaven. 
And veils the farm-house at the garden's 

end. 
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's 

feet 
Delayed, all friends shut out, the house- 
mates sit 
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed 
In a tumultuous privacy of storm. 

Come see the north wind's masonry. 
Out of an unseen quarry evermore 
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer 
Curves his white bastions with projected roof 
Round every windward stake, or tree, or 

door. 
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work 
So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he 
For number or proportion. Mockingly, 
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths ; 
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; 
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, 
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate 
A tapering turret overtops the work. 
And when his hours are numbered, and the 

world 
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not. 
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art 
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone. 
Built in an age, the mad wind's night- work. 
The frolic architecture of the snow. 



FORERUNNERS 

Long I followed happy guides, 
I could never reach their sides; 
Their step is forth, and, ere the day 
Breaks up their leaguer, and away. 



Keen my sense, my heart was young, 

Right good-will my sinews strung. 

But no speed of mine avails 

To hunt upon their shining trails. 

On and away, their hasting feet 

Make the morning proud and sweet; 

Flowers they strew, — I catch the scent; 

Or tone of silver instrument 

Leaves on the wind melodious trace; 

Yet I could never see their face. 

On eastern hills I see their smokes, 

Mixed with mist by distant lochs. 

I met many travellers 

Who the road had surely kept; 

They saw not my fine revellers, — 

These had crossed them while they slept. 

Some had heard their fair report, 

In the country or the courto 

Fleetest couriers alive 

Never yet could once arrive, 

As they went or they returned. 

At the house where these sojourned. 

Sometimes their strong speed they slacken, 

Though they are not overtaken; 

In sleep their jubilant troop is near, — 

I tuneful voices overhear; 

It may be in wood or waste, — 

At unawares 't is come and past. 

Their near camp my spirit knows 

By signs gracious as rainbows. 

I thenceforward and long after. 

Listen for their harp-like laughter 

And carry in my heart, for days, 

Peace that hallows rudest ways. 



BRAHMA 

If the red slayer think he slays. 
Or if the slain think he is slain, 

They know not well the subtle ways 
I keep, and pass, and turn again. 

Far or forgot to me is near; 

Shadow and sunlight are the same; 
The vanished gods to me appear; 

And one to me are shame and fame. 

They reckon ill who leave me out; 

When me they fly, I am the wings; 
I am the doubter and the doubt, 

And I the hymn the Brahmin singSc 

The strong gods pine for my abode. 
And pine in vain the sacred Seven; 



94 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



But thou, meek lover of the good ! 

Find me, and turn thy back on heaven. 



FORBEARANCE 

Hast thou named all the birds without a 
gun ? 

Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its 
stalk ? 

At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse ? 

Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of 
trust ? 

And loved so well a high behavior. 

In man or maid, that thou from speech re- 
frained. 

Nobility more nobly to repay ? 

O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine ! 



CHARACTER 

The sun set, but set not his hope: 
Stars rose; his faith was earlier up: 
Fixed on the enormous galaxy, 
Deeper and older seemed his eye; 
And matched his sufferance sublime 
The taciturnity of time. 
He spoke, and words more soft than rain 
Brought the Age of Gold again: 
His action won such reverence sweet 
As hid all measure of the feat. 



MERLIN 

Thy trivial harp will never please 

Or fill my craving ear; 

Its chords should ring as blows the breeze, 

Free, peremptory, clear. 

No jingling serenader's art. 

Nor tinkle of piano strings. 

Can make the wild blood start 

In its mystic springs. 

The kingly bard 

Must smite the chords rudely and hard, 

As with hammer or with mace; 

That they may render back 

Artful thunder, which conveys 

Secrets of the solar track, 

Sparks of the supersolar blaze. 

Merlin's blows are strokes of fate, 

Chiming with the forest tone. 

When boughs buffet boughs in the wood; 

Chiming with the gasp and moan 



Of the ice-imprisoned flood; 

With the pulse of manly hearts; 

With the voice of orators; 

With the din of city arts; 

With the cannonade of wars ; 

With the marches of the brave; 

And prayers of might from martyrs cave. 

Great is the art, 

Great be the manners, of the bard. 

He shall not his brain encumber 

With the coil of rhythm and number; 

But, leaving rule and pale forethought, 

He shall aye climb 

For his rhyme. 

" Pass in, pass in," the angels say, 

" Into the upper doors. 

Nor count compartments of the floors, 

But mount to paradise 

By the stairway of surprise." 

Blameless master of the games. 
King of sport that never shames. 
He shall daily joy dispense 
Hid in song's sweet influence. 
Forms more cheerly live and go. 
What time the subtle mind 
Sings aloud the tune whereto 
Their pulses beat, 
And march their feet. 
And their members are combined. 

By Sybarites beguiled. 
He shall no task decline; 
Merlin's mighty line 
Extremes of nature reconciled. 
Bereaved a tyrant of his will, 
And made the lion mild. 
Songs can the tempest still. 
Scattered on the stormy air. 
Mould the year to fair increase, 
And bring in poetic peace. 

He shall not seek to weave, 

In weak, unhappy times. 

Efficacious rhymes; 

Wait his returning strength. 

Bird that from the nadir's floor 

To the zenith's top can soar, — 

The soaring orbit of the muse exceeds that 

journey's length. 
Nor profane affect to hit 
Or compass that, by meddling wit, 
Which only the propitious mind 
Publishes when 't is inclined. 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 



95 



There are open hours 

When the God's will sallies free, 

And the dull idiot might see 

The flowing fortunes of a thousand years; 

Sudden, at unawares. 

Self-moved, fly-to the doors, 

Nor sword of angels could reveal 

What they conceal. 



FROM "WOODNOTES" 

" THE HEART OF ALL THE SCENE " 

'T WAS one of the charmed days 

When the genius of God doth flow. 

The wind may alter twenty ways, 

A tempest cannot blow; 

It may blow north, it still is warm; 

Or south, it still is clear; 

Or east, it smells like a clover-farm ; 

Or west, no thunder fear. 

The musing peasant lowly great 

Beside the forest water sate; 

The rope-like pineroots crosswise grown 

Composed the network of his throne; 

The wide lake, edged with sand and grass. 

Was burnished to a floor of glass, 

Painted with shadows green and proud 

Of the tree and of the cloud. 

He was the heart of all the scene; 

On him the sun looked more serene; 

To hill and cloud his face was known, — 

It seemed the likeness of their own; 

They knew by secret sympathy 

The public child of earth and sky. 

'* You ask," he said, " what guide 

Me through trackless thickets led. 

Through thick-stemmed woodlands rough 

and wide. 
I found the water's bed. 
The watercourses were my guide; 
I travelled grateful by their side, 
Or through their channel dry ; 
They led me through the thicket damp, 
Through brake and fern, the beavers' camp, 
Through beds of granite cut my road, 
And their resistless friendship showed : 
The falling waters led me. 
The foodful waters fed me. 
And brought me to the lowest land, 
Unerring to the ocean sand. 
The moss upon the forest bark 
Was pole-star when the night was dark; 
The purple berries in the wood 



Supplied me necessary food; 

For Nature ever faithful is 

To such as trust her faithfulness. 

When the forest shall mislead me, 

When the night and morning lie, 

When sea and land refuse to feed me, 

'T will be time enough to die; 

Then will yet my mother yield 

A pillow in her greenest field, 

Nor the June flowers scorn to cover 

The clay of their departed lover." 



"THE undersong" 

Heed the old oracles. 

Ponder my spells; 

Song wakes in my pinnacles 

When the wind swells. 

Soundeth the prophetic wind. 

The shadows shake on the rock behind. 

And the countless leaves of the pine are 

strings 
Tuned to the lay the wood-god sings. 

Hearken ! Hearken ! 
If thou wouldst know the mystic song 
Chanted when the sphere was young. 
Aloft, abroad, the ptean swells; 
O wise man ! hear'st thou half it tells ? 
O wise man ! hear'st thou the least part ? 
'T is the chronicle of art. 
To the open air it sings 
Sweet the genesis of things. 
Of tendency through endless ages, 
Of star-dust, and star-pilgrimages, 
Of rounded worlds, of space and time, 
Of the old flood's subsiding slime, 
Of chemic matter, force and form. 
Of poles and powers, cold, wet and warm .' 
The rushing metamorphosis 
Dissolving all that fixture is. 
Melts things that be to things that seem, 
And solid nature to a dream, 
O, listen to the undersong. 
The ever old, the ever young; 
And, far within those cadent pauses, 
The chorus of the ancient Causes ! 
Delights the dreadful Destiny 
To fling his voice into the tree, 
And shock thy weak ear with a note 
Breathed from the everlasting throat. 
In music he repeats the pang 
Whence the fair flock of Nature sprang. 
O mortal ! thy ears are stones; 
These echoes are laden with tones 



96 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Which only the pure can hear; 

Thou canst not catch what they .recite 

Of Fate and Will, of Want and Right, 

Of man to come, of human life, 

Of Death and Fortune, Growth and Strife. 



"THE MIGHTY HEART" 

Come learn with me the fatal song 
Which knits the world in music strong ; 
Come lift thine eyes to lofty rhymes. 
Of things with things, of times with times, 
Primal chimes of sun and shade, 
Of sound and echo, man and maid, 
The land reflected in the flood. 
Body with shadow still pursued. 
For Nature beats in perfect tune, 
And rounds with rhyme her every rune. 
Whether she work in land or sea, 
Or hide ixnderground her alchemy. 
Thou canst not wave thy staff in air. 
Or dip thy paddle in the lake, 
But it carves the bow of beauty there. 
And the ripples in rhymes the oar for- 
sake. 
The wood is wiser far than thou ; 
The wood and wave each other know, 
Not unrelated, unaffied, 
But to each thought and thing allied. 
Is perfect Nature's every part, 
Rooted in the mighty Heart. 
But thou, poor child ! unbound, unrhymed. 
Whence camest thou, misplaced, mistimed, 
A^Tience, O thou orphan and defrauded ? 
Is thy land peeled, thy realm marauded ? 
Who thee divorced, deceived and left ? 
Thee of thy faith who hath bereft. 
And torn the ensigns from thy brow. 
And sunk the immortal eye so low ? 
Thy cheek too white, thy form too slen- 
der. 
Thy gait too slow, thy habits tender 
For royal man ; — they thee confess 
An exile from the wilderness, — 
The hills where health with health agrees. 
And the wise soul expels disease. 

Hark ! in thy ear I will tell the sign 
By which thy hurt thou mayst divine. 
When thou shalt climb the mountain cliff. 
Or see the wide shore from thy skiff, 
To thee the horizon shall express 
But emptiness on emptiness; 
There lives no man of Nature's worth 
In the circle of the earth; 



And to thine eye the vast skies fall, 
Dire and satirical. 
On clucking hens and prating fools. 
On thieves, on drudges, and on dolls. 
And thou shalt say to the Most High, 
" Godhead 1 all this astronomy. 
And fate and practice and invention, 
Strong art and beautiful pretension, 
This radiant pomp of sun and star, 
Throes that were, and worlds that are, 
Behold ! were in vain and in vain; 
It cannot be, — I will look again. 
Surely now will the curtain rise. 
And earth's fit tenant me surprise ; 
But the curtain doth not rise. 
And Nature has miscarried wholly 
Into failure, into folly." 

Alas ! thine is the bankruptcy, 

Blessed Nature so to see. 

Come, lay thee in my soothing shade. 

And heal the hurts which sin has made, 

I see thee in the crowd alone ; 

I will be thy companion. 

Quit thy friends as the dead in doom, 

And build to them a final tomb ; 

Let the starred shade that nightly falls 

Still celebrate their funerals. 

And the bell of beetle and of bee 

Knell their melodious memory. 

Behind thee leave thy merchandise, 

Thy churches and thy charities; 

And leave thy peacock wit behind ; 

Enough for thee the primal mind 

That flows in streams, that breathes in wind; 

Leave all thy pedant lore apart; 

God hid the whole world in thy heart. 



DAYS 

Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days, 
Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes. 
And marching single in an endless file. 
Bring diadems and fagots in their hands. 
To each they offer gifts after his will. 
Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds 

them all. 
I, in my pleached garden, watched the 

pomp, 
Forgot my morning wishes, hastily 
Took a few herbs and apples, and the 

Day 
Turned and departed silent. I, too late. 
Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn. 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 



97 



THE EARTH 

Our eyeless bark sails free, 
Though with boom and spar 

Andes, Alp, or Himmalee 
Strikes never moon or star. 



WAVES 

All day the waves assailed the rock, 
I heard no church-bell chime ; 

The sea-beat scorns the minster clock 
And breaks the glass of Time. 



TERMINUS 

It is time to be old. 

To take in sail: 

The god of bounds, 

Who sets to seas a shore, 

Came to me in his fatal rounds, 

And said : " No more ! 

No farther shoot 

Thy broad ambitious branches, and thy 

root. 
Fancy departs: no more invent; 
Contract thy firmament 
To compass of a tent. 
There 's not enough for this and that. 
Make thy option which of two; 
Economize the failing river, 
Not the less revere the Giver, 
Leave the many and hold the few. 
Timely wise accept the terms, 
Soften the fall with wary foot; 
A little while 
Still plan and smile, 
And — fault of novel germs — 
Mature the unfallen fruit. 
Curse, if thou wilt, thy sires, 
Bad husbands of their fires, 
Who, when they gave thee breath, 
Failed to bequeath 
The needful sinew stark as once. 
The Baresark marrow to thy bones. 
But left a legacy of ebbing veins. 
Inconstant heat and nerveless reins, — 
Amid the Muses, left thee deaf and dumb. 
Amid the gladiators, halt and numb." 

As the bird trims her to the gale, 
I trim myself to the storm of time, 
I man the rudder, reef the sail. 
Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime : 



" Lowly faithful, banish fear. 

Right onward drive unharmed; 

The port, well worth the cruise, is near. 

And every wave is charmed." 



THRENODY 

The south-wind brings 

Life, sunshine, and desire. 

And on every mount and meadow 

Breathes aromatic fire; 

But over the dead he has no power. 

The lost, the lost, he cannot restore; 

And, looking over the hills, I mourn 

The darling who shall not return. 

I see my empty house, 

I see my trees repair their boughs ; 

And he, the wondrous child. 

Whose silver warble wild 

Outvalued every pulsing sound 

Within the air's cerulean round, — 

The hyacinthine boy, for whom 

Morn well might break and April bloom, 

The gracious boy, who did adorn 

The world whereinto he was born. 

And by his countenance repay 

The favor of the loving Day, — 

Has disappeared from the Day's eye; 

Far and wide she cannot find him; 

My hopes pursue, they cannot bind him. 

Returned this day, the south-wind searches. 

And finds young pines and budding birches ; 

But finds not the budding man; 

Nature, who lost, cannot remake him; 

Fate let him fall. Fate can't retake him; 

Nature, Fate, men, him seek in vain. 

And whither now, my truant wise and sweet. 

O, whither tend thy feet ? 

I had the right, few days ago. 

Thy steps to watch, thy place to know; 

How have I forfeited the right ? 

Hast thou forgot me in a new delight ? 

I hearken for thy household cheer, 

O eloquent child ! 

Whose voice, an equal messenger. 

Conveyed thy meaning mild. 

What though the pains and joys 

Whereof it spoke were toys 

Fitting his age and ken. 

Yet fairest dames and bearded men, 

Who heard the sweet request, 

So gentle, wise, and grave. 



98 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Bended with joy to his behest, 
And let the world's affairs go by, 
Awhile to share his cordial game, 
Or mend his wicker wagon-frame, 
Still plotting how their hungry ear 
That winsome voice again might hear; 
For his lips could well pronounce 
Words that were persuasions. 

Gentlest guardians marked serene 
His early hope, his liberal mien; 
Took counsel from his guiding eyes 
To make this wisdom earthly wise. 
Ah, vainly do these eyes recall 
The school-march, each day's festival, 
When every morn my bosom glowed 
To watch the convoy on the road; 
The babe in willow wagon closed. 
With rolling eyes and face composed; 
With children forward and behind, 
Like Cupids studiously inclined; 
And he the chieftain paced beside, 
The centre of the troop allied. 
With sunny face of sweet repose, 
To guard the babe from fancied foes. 
The little captain innocent 
Took the eye with him as he went, 
Each village senior paused to scan 
And speak the lovely caravan. 
From the window I look out 
To mark thy beautiful parade. 
Stately marching in cap and coat 
To some tune by fairies played; 
A music heard hj thee alone 
To works as noble led thee on. 

Now Love and Pride, alas ! in vain. 

Up and down their glances strain. 

The painted sled stands where it stood; 

The kennel by the corded wood; 

His gathered sticks to stanch the wall 

Of the snow-tower, when snow should 

fall; 
The ominous hole he dug in the sand, 
And childhood's castles built or planned; 
His daily haunts I well discern, — 
The poultry-yard, the shed, the barn, — 
And every inch of garden ground 
Paced by the blessed feet around, 
From the roadside to the brook 
Whereinto he loved to look. 
Step the meek fowls where erst they ranged; 
The wintry garden lies unchanged ; 
The brook into the stream runs on; 
But the deep-eyed boy is gone. 



On that shaded day, 

Dark with more clouds than tempests are. 

When thou didst yield thy innocent breath 

In birdlike heavings unto death. 

Night came, and Nature had not thee; 

I said, " We are mates in misery." 

The morrow dawned with needless glow; 

Each snowbird chirped, each fowl must 

crow; 
Each tramper started ; but the feet 
Of the most beautiful and sweet 
Of human youth had left the hill 
And garden, — they were bound and stilk 
There 's not a sparrow or a wren, 
There 's not a blade of autumn grain, 
Which the four seasons do not tend 
And tides of life and increase lend; ' 
And every chick of every bird. 
And weed and rock-moss is preferred. 
O ostrich-like forgetfulness ! 
O loss of larger in the less ! 
Was there no star that could be sent, 
No watcher in the firmament, 
No angel from the countless host 
That loiters round the crystal coast, 
Could stoop to heal that only child, 
Nature's sweet marvel undefiled, 
And keep the blossom of the earth. 
Which all her harvests were not worth ? 
Not mine, — I never called thee mine, 
But Nature's heir, — if I repine. 
And seeing rashly torn and moved 
Not what I made, but what I loved. 
Grow early old with grief that thou 
Must to the wastes of Nature go, — 
'T is because a general hope 
Was quenched, and all must doubt and 

grope. 
For flattering planets seemed to say 
This child should ills of ages stay. 
By wondrous tongue, and guided pen, 
Bring the flown Muses back to men. 
Perchance not he but Nature ailed. 
The world and not the infant failed. 
It was not ripe yet to sustain 
A genius of so fine a strain. 
Who gazed upon the sun and moon 
As if he came unto his own. 
And, pregnant with his grander thought. 
Brought the old order into doubt. 
His beauty once their beauty tried; 
They could not feed him, and he died. 
And wandered backward as in scorn, 
To wait an seon to be born. 
Ill day which made this beauty waste. 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 



99 



Plight broken, this high face defaced ! 
Some went and came about the dead; 
And some in books of solace read; 
Some to their friends the tidings say; 
Some went to write, some went to pray; 
One tarried here, there hurried one; 
But their heart abode with none. 
Covetous death bereaved us all, 
To aggrandize one fimeral. 
The eager fate which carried thee 
Took the largest part of me : 
For this losing is true dying; 
This is lordly man's down-lying, 
This his slow but sure reclining, 
Star by star his world resigning. 

child of paradise, 

Boy who made dear his father's home, 

In whose deep eyes 

Men read the welfare of the times to come, 

1 am too much bereft. 

The world dishonored thou hast left. 
O truth's and nature's costly lie ! 
O trusted broken prophecy ! 

richest fortune sourly crossed ! 
Born for the future, to the future lost ! 
The deep Heart answered, " Weepest thou ? 
Worthier cause for passion wild 

If I had not taken the child. 

And deemest thou as those who pore. 

With aged eyes, short way before, — 

Think'st Beauty vanished from the coast 

Of matter, and thy darling lost ? 

Taught he not thee — the man of eld, 

Whose eyes within his eyes beheld 

Heaven's numerous hierarchy span 

The mystic gulf from God to man ? 

To be alone wilt thou begin 

When worlds of lovers hem thee in ? 

To-morrow, when the masks shall fall 

That dizen Nature's carnival, 

The pure shall see by their own will, 

Which overflowing Love shall fill, 

'T is not within the force of fate 

The fate-conjoined to separate. 

But thou, my votary, weepest thou ? 

1 gave thee sight — where is it now ? 
I taught thy heart beyond the reach 
Of ritual, bible, or of speech; 
Wrote in thy mind's transparent table, 
As far as the incommunicable; 
Taught thee each private sign to raise 
Lit by the supersolar blaze. 

Past utterance, and past belief, ■ 
And past the blasphemy of grief, 



The mysteries of Nature's heart; 
And though no Muse can these impart. 
Throb thine with Nature's throbbing breast, 
And all is clear from east to west. 

" I came to thee as to a friend; 

Dearest, to thee I did not send 

Tutors, but a joyful eye. 

Innocence that matched the sky, 

Lovely locks, a form of wonder. 

Laughter rich as woodland thunder, 

That thou mightst entertain apart 

The richest flowering of all art: 

And, as the great all-loving Day 

Through smallest chambers takes its way. 

That thou mightst break thy daily bread 

With prophet, savior and head; 

That thou mightst cherish for thine own 

The riches of sweet Mary's Son, 

Boy- Rabbi, Israel's paragon. 

And thoughtest thou such guest 

Would in thy hall take up. his rest? 

Would rushing life forget her laws, 

Fate's glowing revolution pause ? 

High omens ask diviner guess; 

Not to be conned to tediousness. 

And know my higher gifts unbind 

The zone that girds the incarnate mind. 

When the scanty shores are full 

With Thought's perilous, whirling pool; 

When frail Nature can no more, 

Then the Spirit strikes the hour: 

My servant Death, with solving rite, 

Pours finite into infinite. 

Wilt thou freeze love's tidal flow, 

Whose streams through nature circling go ? 

Nail the wild star to its track 

On the half-climbed zodiac ? 

Light is light which radiates. 

Blood is blood which circulates. 

Life is life which generates. 

And many-seeming life is one, — 

Wilt thou transfix and make it none ? 

Its onward force too starkly pent 

In figure, bone, and lineament ? 

Wilt thou, uncalled, interrogate. 

Talker ! the unreplying Fate ? 

Nor see the genius of the whole 

Ascendant in the private soul, 

Beckon it when to go and come. 

Self-announced its hour of doom ? 

Fair the soul's recess and shrine, 

Magic-built to last a season; 

Masterpiece of love benign. 

Fairer that expansive reason 



L.cfC, 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Whose omen 'tis, and sign. 

Wilt thou not hope thy heart to know 

What rainbows teach, and sunsets show ? 

Verdict which accumulates 

From lengthening scroll of human fates, 

Voice of earth to earth returned, 

Prayers of saints that inly burned, — 

Saying, What is excellent, 

As God lives, is permanent ; 

Hearts are dust, hearts^ loves remain j 

Heart's love will meet thee again. 

Revere the Maker; fetch thine eye 

Up to his style, and manners of the sky. 

Not of adamant and gold 

Built he heaven stark and cold; 

No, but a nest of bending reeds, 

Flowering grass and scented weeds; 

Or like a traveller's fleeing tent, 

Or bow above the tempest bent; 

Built of tears and sacred flames. 

And virtue reaching to its aims; 

Built of furtherance and pursuing, 

Not of spent deeds, but of doing. 

Silent rushes the swift Lord 

Through ruined systems still restored, 

Broadsowing, bleak and void to bless, 

Plants with worlds the wilderness; 

Waters with tears of ancient sorrow 

Apples of Eden ripe to-morrow. 

House and tenant go to ground, 

Lost in God, in Godhead found." 



CONCORD HYMN 

SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE 
BATTLE MONUMENT, APRIL 1 9, 1 836 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood. 
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled. 

Here once the embattled farmers stood, 
And fired the shot heard round the 
world. 

The foe long since in silence slept; 

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; 
And Time the ruined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward 
creeps. 

On this green bank, by this soft stream, 

We set to-day a votive stone; 
That memory may their deed redeem. 

When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 



Spirit, that made those heroes dare 
To die, and leave their children free, 

Bid Time and Nature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them and thee. 



ODE 

SUNG IN THE TOWN HALL, CONCORD, 
JULY 4, 1857 

O TENDERLY the haughty day 

Fills his blue urn with fire ; 
One morn is in the mighty heaven, 

And one in our desire. 

The cannon booms from town to town, 

Our pulses beat not less, 
The joy-bells chime their tidings down. 

Which children's voices bless. 

For He that flung the broad blue fold 

O'er-mantling land and sea, 
One third part of the sky unrolled 

For the banner of the free. 

The men are ripe of Saxon kind 

To build an equal state, — 
To take the statute from the mind 

And make of duty fate. 

United States ! the ages plead, — 
Present and Past in under-song, — 

Go put your creed into your deed. 
Nor speak with double tongue. 

For sea and land don't understand 

Nor skies without a frown 
See rights for which the one hand fights 

By the other cloven down. 

Be just at home; then write your scroll 

Of honor o'er the sea. 
And bid the broad Atlantic roll 

A ferry of the free. 

And henceforth there shall be no chain. 

Save underneath the sea 
The wires shall murmur through the main 

Sweet songs of liberty. 

The conscious stars accord above, 

The waters wild below. 
And under, through the cable wove. 

Her fiery errands go. 



SARAH HELEN WHITMAN 



lOI 



For He that worketh high and wise, 

Nor pauses in his plan, 
Will take the sun out of the skies 

Ere freedom out of man. 



THE TEST 

I HUNG my verses in the wind, 
Time and tide their faults may find. 
All were winnowed through and through, 



Five lines lasted sound and true; 
Five were smelted in a pot 
Than the South more fierce and hot; 
These the siroc could not melt, 
Fire their fiercer flaming felt, 
And the meaning was more white 
Than July's meridian light. 
Sunshine cannot bleach the snow. 
Nor time unmake what poets know. 
Have you eyes to find the five 
Which five hundred did survive ? 



^aral) ^tltn H^Jitnian 



SONNETS 

(from the series relating to EDGAR 
ALLAN POE) 



When first I looked into thy glorious eyes, 
And saw, with their unearthly beauty 

pained, 
JSeaven deepening within heaven, like the 

skies 
Of autumn nights without a shadow stained, 
I stood as one whom some strange dream 

enthralls ; 
For, far away in some lost life divine, 
Some land which every glorious dream re- 
calls, 
A spirit looked on me with eyes like thine. 
Even now, though death has veiled their 

starry light, 
And closed their lids in his relentless 

night, — 
As some strange dream, remembered in a 

dream. 
Again I see, in sleep, their tender beam; 
Unfading hopes their cloudless azure fill. 
Heaven deepening within heaven, serene 

and still. 



Oft since thine earthly eyes have closed on 

mine, 
Our souls, dim-wandering in the hall of 

dreams. 
Hold mystic converse on the life divine, 
By the still music of immortal streams; 



And oft thy spirit tells how souls, affied 
By sovran destinies, no more can part, — 
How death and hell are powerless to divide 
Souls whose deep lives lie folded heart in 

heart. 
And if, at times, some lingering shadow 

lies 
Heavy upon my path, some haunting dread, 
Then do I point thee to the harmonies 
Of those calm heights whereto our souls 

arise 
Through suffering, — the faith that doth 

approve 
In death the deathless power and divine 

life of love. 



On our lone pathway bloomed no earthly 

hopes: 
Sorrow and death were near us, as we stood 
Where the dim forest, from the upland 

slopes. 
Swept darkly to the sea. The enchanted 

wood 
Thrilled, as by some foreboding terror 

stirred ; 
And as the waves broke on the lonely shore, 
In their low monotone, methought I heard 
A solemn voice that sighed, " Ye meet no 

more." 
There, while the level sunbeams seemed to 

burn 
Through the long aisles of red, autumnal 

gloom, — 
Where stately, storied cenotaphs inurn 
Sweet human hopes, too fair on Earth to 

bloom, — 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Was the bud reaped, whose petals pure and 

cold 
Sleep on my heart till Heaven the flower 

unfold. 



If thy sad heart, pining for human love. 
In its earth solitude grew dark with 

fear, 
Lest the high Sun of Heaven itself should 

prove 
Powerless to save from that phantasmal 

sphere 
Wherein thy spirit wandered, — if the 

flowers 



That pressed around thy feet, seemed but 

to bloom 
In lone Gethsemanes, through starless 

hours. 
When all who loved had left thee to thy 

doom, — 
Oh, yet believe that, in that hollow vale 
Where thy soul lingers, waiting to attain 
So much of Heaven's sweet grace as shall 

avail 
To lift its burden of remorseful pain. 
My soul shall meet thee, and its Heaven 

forego 
Till God's great love, on both, one hope, 

one Heaven bestow. 



H^illiam ElopD <6arri^on 



LIBERTY FOR ALL 

They tell me. Liberty ! that in thy name 
I may not plead for all the human race; 
That some are born to bondage and dis- 
grace, 
Some to a heritage of woe and shame. 
And some to power supreme, and glorious 

fame: 
With my whole soul I spurn the doctrine 

base, 
And, as an equal brotherhood, embrace 
All people, and for all fair freedom claim ! 
Know this, O man ! whate'er thy earthly 

fate — 
God never made a tyrant nor a slave: 
Woe, then, to those who dare to desecrate 
His glorious image ! — for to all He gave 
Eternal rights, which none may violate; 
And, by a mighty hand, the oppressed He 
yet shall save ! 



FREEDOM FOR THE MIND 

High walls and huge the body may confine, 
And iron grates obstruct the prisoner's gaze. 
And massive bolts may baffle his design. 
And vigilant keepers watch his devious 

ways: 
Yet scorns the immortal mind this base 

control ! 
No chains can bind it, and no cell enclose : 
Swifter than light, it flies from pole to 

pole, 
And, in a flash, from earth to heaven it goes ! 
It leaps from mount to mount — from vale 

to vale 
It wanders, plucking honeyed fruits and 

flowers ; 
It visits home, to hear the fireside tale, 
Or in sweet converse pass the joyous hours. 
'T is up before the sun, roaming afar. 
And, in its watches, wearies every star ! 



jr^atfjanid ^athtt WM^ 



PARRHASIUS 

There stood an unsold captive in the mart, 
A gray-haired and majestical old man. 
Chained to a pillar. It was almost night. 
And the last seller from the place had gone, 



And not a sound was heard but of a dog 
Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone. 
Or the dull echo from the pavement rung, 
As the faint captive changed his weary feet. 
He had stood there since morning, and had 
borne 



GARRISON — WILLIS 



103 



From every eye in Athens the cold gaze 
Of curious scorn. The Jew had taunted 

him 
For an Olynthian slave. The buyer came 
And roughly struck his palm uf)on his breast, 
And touched his unhealed wounds, and with 

a sneer 
Passed on; and when, with weariness o'er- 

spent. 
He bowed his head in a forgetful sleep. 
The inhuman soldier smote him, and, with 

threats 
Of torture to his children, summoned back 
The ebbing blood into his pallid face. 

'T was evening, and the half-descended 

sun 
Tipped with a golden fire the many domes 
Of Athens, and a yellow atmosphere 
Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street 
Through which the captive gazed. He had 

borne up 
With a stout heart that long and weary 

day. 
Haughtily patient of his many wrongs. 
But now he was alone, and from his nerves 
The needless strength departed, and he 

leaned 
Prone on his massy chain, and let his 

thoughts 
Throng on him as they would. Unmarked 

of him 
Parrhasius at the nearest pillar stood. 
Gazing upon his grief. The Athenian's 

cheek 
Flushed as he measured with a painter's 

eye 
The moving picture. The abandoned limbs. 
Stained with the oozing blood, were laced 

with veins 
Swollen to purple fulness; the gray hair. 
Thin and disordered, hung about his eyes; 
And as a thought of wilder bitterness 
Rose in his memory, his lips grew white. 
And the fast workings of his bloodless 

face 
Told what a tooth of fire was at his heart. 

The golden light into the painter's room 
Streamed richly, and the hidden colors 

stole 
From the dark pictures radiantly forth. 
And in the soft and dewy atmosphere 
Like forms and landscapes magical they 

lay. 



The walls were hung with armor, and about 
In the dim corners stood the sculptured 

forms 
Of Cytheris, and Dian, and stern Jove, 
And from the casement soberly away 
Fell the grotesque long shadows, full and 

true, 
And like a veil of filmy mellowness, 
The lint-specks floated in the twilight air. 
Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully 
Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay, 
Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Cauca- 
sus — 
The vulture at his vitals, and the links 
Of the lame Lemnian festering in his 

flesh ; 
And, as the painter's mind felt through the 

dim, 
Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows 

forth 
With its far reaching fancy, and with form 
And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye 
Flashed with a passionate fire, and the 

quick curl 
Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip 
Were like the winged god's, breathing from 

his flight. 

" Bring me the captive now ! 
My hand feels skilful, and the shadows 

lift 
From my waked spirit airily and swift, 

And I could paint the bow 
Upon the bended heavens — around me 

play 
Colors of such divinity to-day. 

" Ha ! bind him on his back ! 
Look ! — as Prometheus in my picture 

here ! 
Quick — or he faints ! — stand with the 

cordial near ! 
Now — bend him to the rack ! 
Press down the poisoned links into his 

flesh! 
And tear agape that healing wound 

afresh ! 

" So — let him writhe ! How long 
Will he live thus ? Quick, my good 

pencil, now ! 
What a fine agony works upon his brow ! 

Ha ! gray-haired, and so strong ! 
How fearfully he stifles that short moan ! 
Gods ! if I could but paint a dying groan J 



104 



FIRST lyV^RICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



" • Pity ' thee ! So I do ! 
I pity the dumb victim at the altar — 
But does the robed priest for his pity 
falter ? 
I 'd rack thee though I knew 
A thousand lives vrere perishing in 

thine — 
What were ten thousand to a fame like 
mine ? 

" * Hereafter ! ' Ay — hereafter ! 
A whip to keep a coward to his track ! 
What gave Death ever from his king- 
dom back 
To check the skeptic's laughter ? 
Come from the grave to-morrow with 

that story, 
And I may take some softer path to glory. 

" No, no, old man ! we die 
Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe 

away 
Our life upon the chance wind, even as 

they! 
Strain well thy fainting eye — 
For when that bloodshot quivering is 

o'er, 
The light of heaven will never reach 

thee more. 

" Yet there 's a deathless name ! 
A spirit that the smothering vault shall 

spurn. 

And like a steadfast planet mount and 

burn ; 

And though its crown of flame 

Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone. 

By all the fiery stars ! I 'd bind it on ! — 

" Ay — though it bid me rifle 

My heart's last fount for its insatiate 
thirst — 

Though every life-strung nerve be mad- 
dened first — 
Though it should bid me stifle 

The yearning in my throat for my sweet 
child. 

And taunt its mother till my brain went 
wild — 

" All — I would do it all — 
Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to 

rot. 
Thrust foully into earth to be forgot ! 

Oh heavens ! — but I appall 



Your heart, old man ! forgive — ha ! on 

your lives 
Let him not faint ! — rack him till he re- 



" Vain — vain — give o'er ! His eye 
Glazes apace. He does not feel you 

now — 
Stand back ! I '11 paint the death-dew 

on his brow ! 
Gods ! if he do not die 
But for one moment — one — till I 

eclipse 
Conception with the scorn of those calm 

lips ! 

" Shivering ! Hark ! he mutters 
Brokenly now — that was a difficult 

breath — 
Another ? Wilt thou never come, oh 

Death ! 
Look ! how his temple flutters ! 
Is his heart still ? Aha ! lift up bis 

head ! 
He shudders — gasps — Jove help him ! 

— so — he 's dead." 

How like a mounting devil in the heart 
Rules the unreined ambition ! Let it once 
But play the monarch, and its haughty 

brow 
Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought 
And unthrones peace forever. Putting on 
The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns 
The heart to ashes, and with not a spring 
Left in the bosom for the spirit's lip. 
We look upon our splendor and forget 
The thirst of which we perish ! Yet hath 

life 
Many a falser idol. There are hopes 
Promising well; and love-touched dreams 

for some; 
And passions, many a wild one; and fair 

schemes 
For gold and pleasure — yet will only 

this 
Balk not the soul — Ambition, only, gives, 
Even of bitterness, a beaker full ! 
Friendship is but a slow-awaking dream. 
Troubled at best; Love is a lamp un- 
seen, 
Burning to waste, or, if its light is found, 
Nursed for an idle hour, then idly broken; 
Gain is a grovelling care, and Folly tires. 
And Quiet is a hunger never fed; 



NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 



105 



And from Love's very bosom, and from 

Gain, 
Or Folly, or a Friend, or from Repose — 
From all but keen Ambition — will the 

soul 
Snatch the first moment of forgetfulness 
To wander like a restless child away. 
Oh, if there were not better hopes than 

these — 
Were there no palm beyond a feverish 

fame — 
If the proud wealth flung back upon the 

heart 
Must canker in its coffers — if the links 
Falsehood hath broken will unite no more — 
If the deep yearning love, that hath not 

found 
Its like in the cold world, must waste in 

tears — 
If truth and fervor and devotedness, 
Finding no worthy altar, must return 
And die of their own fulness — if beyond 
The grave there is no heaven in whose wide 

air 
The spirit may find room, and in the love 
Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart 
May spend itself — what thrice-mocked 

fools are we ! 



UNSEEN SPIRITS 

The shadows lay along Broadway, 

'T was near the twilight-tide. 
And slowly there a lady fair 

Was walking in her pride. 
Alone walked she; but, viewlessly, 

Walked spirits at her side. 

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, 

And Honor charmed the air; 
And all astir looked kind on her, 

And called her good as fair, 
For all God ever gave to her 

She kept with chary care. 

She kept with care her beauties rare 

From lovers warm and true, 
For her heart was cold to all but gold, 

And the rich came not to woo — 
But honored well are charms to sell 

If priests the selling do. 

Now walking there was one more fair — 
A slight girl, lily-pale; 



And she had unseen company 

To make the spirit quail: 
'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn, 

And nothing could avail. 

No mercy now can clear her brow 
For this world's peace to pray; 

For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in 
air. 
Her woman's heart gave way ! — 

But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven 
By man is cursed alway ! 



THE TORN HAT 

There 's something in a noble boy, 

A brave, free-hearted, careless one. 
With his unchecked, unbidden joy. 

His dread of books and love of fun — 
And in his clear and ready smile, 
Unshaded by a thought of guile, 

And unrepressed by sadness — 
Which brings me to my childhood back, 
As if I trod its very track, 

And felt its very gladness. 
And yet it is not in his play, 

When every trace of thought is lost. 
And not when you would call him gay. 

That his bright presence thrills ma 
most. 

His shout may ring upon the hill. 
His voice be echoed in the hall. 

His merry laugh like music trill. 
And I unheeding hear it all; 

For, like the wrinkles on my brow, 

I scarcely notice such things now. 
But when, amid the earnest game. 

He stops as if he music heard. 
And, heedless of his shouted name 

As of the carol of a bird. 
Stands gazing on the empty air 
As if some dream were passing there — 

'T is then that on his face I look. 
His beautiful but thoughtful face, 

And, like a long-forgotten book, 
Its sweet, familiar meaning trace, 

Remembering a thousand things 

Which passed me on those golden wings, 
Which time has fettered now — 

Things that came o'er me with a thrill. 

And left me silent, sad, and still. 
And threw upon my brow 

A holier and a gentler cast, 

That was too innocent to last. 



io6 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



'T is strange how thought upon a child 

Will, like a presence, sometime press; 
And when his pulse is beating wild, 

And life itself is in excess — 
When foot and hand, and ear and eye, 
Are all with ardor straining high — 

How in his heart will spring 
A feeling, whose mysterious thrall 
Is stronger, sweeter far than all; 

And, on its silent wing, 
How with the clouds he '11 float away, 
As wandering and as lost as they ! 



TO GIULIA GRISI 

When the rose is brightest. 

Its bloom will soonest die; 
When burns the meteor brightest, 

'T will vanish from the sky. 
If Death but wait until delight 

O'errun the heart like wine. 
And break the cup when brimming quite, 
I die — for thou hast poured to-night 

The last drop into mine. 



J^illtam oMlmore if>iinmjef 



THE SWAMP FOX 

We follow where the Swamp Fox guides. 

His friends and merry men are we; 
And when the troop of Tarleton rides. 

We burrow in the cypress tree. 
The turfy hammock is our bed. 

Our home is in the red deer's den. 
Our roof, the tree-top overhead. 

For we are wild and hunted men. 

We fly by day and shun its light, 

But, prompt to strike the sudden blow, 
We mount and start with early night. 

And through the forest track our foe. 
And soon he hears our chargers leap. 

The flashing sabre blinds his eyes. 
And ere he drives away his sleep. 

And rushes from his camp, he dies. 

Free bridle-bit, good gallant steed, 

That will not ask a kind caress 
To swim the Santee at our need. 

When on his heels the foemen press, — 
The true heart and the ready hand, 

The spirit stubborn to be free, 
The twisted bore, the smiting brand, — 

And we are Marion's men, you see- 
Now light the fire and cook the meal, 

The last perhaps that we shall taste; 
I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal. 

And that 's a sign we move in haste. 
He whistles to the scouts, and hark ! 

You hear his order calm and low. 
Come, wave your torch across the dark, 

And let us see the boys that go. 



We may not see their forms again, 

God help 'em, should they find the 
strife ! 
For they are strong and fearless men, 

And make no coward terms for life; 
They '11 fight as long as Marion bids. 

And when he speaks the word to shy. 
Then, not till then, they turn their steeds. 

Through thickening shade and swamp to 

fly- 

Now stir the fire and lie at ease, — 

The scouts are gone, and on the brush 
I see the Colonel bend his knee, 

To take his slumbers too. But hush ! 
He 's praying, comrades ; 't is not strange ; 

The man that 's fighting day by day 
May well, when night comes, take a change, 

And down upon his knees to pray. 

Break up that hoe-cake, boys, and hand 

The sly and silent jug that 's there; 
I love not it should idly stand 

When Marion's men have need of cheer. 
'T is seldom that our luck affords 

A stuff like this we just have quaffed. 
And dry potatoes on our boards 

May always call for such a draught. 

Now pile the brush and roll the log; 

Hard pillow, but a soldier's head 
That 's half the time in brake and bog 

Must never think of softer bed. 
The owl is hooting to the night. 

The cooter crawling o'er the bank, 
And in that pond the flashing light 

Tells where the alligator sank. 



WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 



107 



What ! 't is the signal ! start so soon, 

And through the Santee swamp so deep, 
Without the aid of friendly moon, 

And we, Heaven help us ! half asleep ! 
But courage, comrades ! Marion leads. 

The Swamp Fox takes us out to-night; 
So clear your swords and spur your steeds. 

There 's goodly chance, I think, of fight. 

We follow where the Swamp Fox guides, 

We leave the swamp and cypress-tree, 
Our spurs are in our coursers' sides, 

And ready for the strife are we. 
The Tory camp is now in sight. 

And there he cowers within his den; 
He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight, 

He fears, and flies from Marion's men. 



THE LOST PLEIAD 

Not in the sky. 

Where it was seen 

So long in eminence of light serene, — 

Nor on the white tops of the glistering wave, 

Nor down in mansions of the hidden deep, 

Though beautiful in green 

And crystal, its great caves of mystery, — 

Shall the bright watcher have 

Her place, and, as of old, high station keep ! 

Gone ! gone ! 

Oh ! nevermore, to cheer 

The mariner, who holds his course alone 

On the Atlantic, through the weary night. 

When the stars turn to watchers, and do 

sleep, 
Shall it again appear. 
With the sweet-loving certainty of light, 
Down shining on the shut eyes of the deep ! 

The upward-looking shepherd on the hills 
Of Chaldea, night-returning with his flocks, 
He wonders why his beauty doth not blaze. 
Gladding his gaze, — 

And, from his dreary watch along the rocks. 
Guiding him homeward o'er the perilous 

ways ! 
How stands he waiting still, in a sad maze, 
Much wondering, while the drowsy silence 

fills 
The sorrowful vault ! — how lingers, in the 

hope that night 
May yet renew the expected and sweet light, 
So natuTal to his sight ! 



And lone, 

Where, at the first, in smiling love she 

shone. 
Brood the once happy circle of bright stars: 
How should they dream, until her fate was 

known, 
That they were ever confiscate to death ? 
That dark oblivion the pure beauty mars, 
And, like the earth, its common bloom and 

breath, 
That they should fall from high; 
Their lights grow blasted by a touch, and die. 
All their concerted springs of harmony 
Snapt rudely, and the generous music gone ! 

Ah ! still the strain 

Of wailing sweetness fills the saddening sky; 
The sister stars, lamenting in their pain 
That one of the selectest ones must die, — 
Must vanish, when most lovely, from the 

rest! 
Alas ! 't is ever thus the destiny. 
Even Rapture's song hath evermore a tone 
Of wailing, as for bliss too quickly gone. 
The hope most precious is the soonest lost, 
The flower most sweet is first to feel the 

frost. 
Are not all short-lived things the loveliest ? 
And, like the pale star, shooting down the 

sky, 

Look they not ever brightest, as they fly 
From the lone sphere they blest ! 

THE DECAY OF A PEOPLE 

This the true sign of ruin to a race — 

It undertakes no march, and day by day 
Drowses in camp, or, with the laggard's 
pace. 
Walks sentry o'er possessions that decay; 
Destined, with sensible waste, to fleet 
away ; — 
For the first secret of continued power 

Is the continued conquest; — all our sway 
Hath surety in the uses of the hour; 
If that we waste, in vain walled town and 
lofty tower ! 

SONG IN MARCH 

Now are the winds about us in their glee, 
Tossing the slender tree; 
Whirling the sands about his furious car, 
March cometh from afar; 



io8 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Breaks the sealed magic of old Winter's 
dreams, 

And rends his glassy streams; 

Chafing with potent airs, he fiercely takes 

Their fetters from the lakes, 

And, with a power by queenly Spring sup- 
plied. 

Wakens the slumbering tide. 

With a wild love he seeks young Summer's 
charms 



And clasps her to his arms; 

Lifting his shield between, he drives away 

Old Winter from his prey ; — 

The ancient tyrant whom he boldly braves, 

Goes howling to his caves; 

And, to his northern realm compelled to 

fly, 

Yields up the victory; 

Melted are all his bands, o'erthrown his 

towers, 
And March comes bringing flowers. 



idalgl) J^opt 



OLD 



By the wayside, on a mossy stone, 
Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly musing; 

Oft I marked him sitting there alone, 
All the landscape like a page perusing; 
Poor, unknown. 

By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 

Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimmed 
hat. 
Coat as ancient as the form 't was folding, 
Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat, 
Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding, 
There he sat ! 
Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimmed 
hat. 

Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. 
No one sympathizing, no one heeding. 

None to love him for his thin gray hair. 
And the furrows all so mutely pleading 
Age and care; 

Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. 

It was summer, and we went to school. 
Dapper country lads and little maidens, 

Taught the motto of the " Dunce's Stool," — 
Its grave import still my fancy ladens, 
" Here 's a fool ! " 

It was summer, and we went to school. 

Still, in sooth, our tasks we seldom tried. 

Sportive pastime only worth our learning. 
But we listened when the old man sighed, 
And that lesson to our hearts went burn- 
ing, 

And we cried; 
Still, in sooth, our tasks we seldom tried. 



When the stranger seemed to mark our 
play, 
(Some of IIS were joyous, some sad- 
hearted), 
I remember well, — too well, — that day ! 
Oftentimes the tears unbidden started, 
Would not stay, — 
When the stranger seemed to mark our play. 

When we cautiously adventured nigh 

We could see his lip with anguish quiver: 
Yet no word he uttered, but his eye 

Seemed in mournful converse with the 
river 

Murmuring by, 
When we cautiously adventured nigh. 

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell, — 
Ah, to me her name was always heaven ! 

She besought him all his grief to tell, 
(I was then thirteen, and she eleven), 
Isabel ! 

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. 

Softly asked she with a voice divine, 

" Why so lonely hast thou wandered 
hither; 
Hast no home ? — then come with me to 
mine; 
There 's our cottage, let me lead thee 
thither; 

Why repine ? " 
Softly asked she with a voice divine. 

"Angel," said he sadly, " I am old: 
Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow, 

Yet why I sit here thou shalt be told ; " 
Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sor- 
row, — 



RALPH HOYT 



109 



Down it rolled; 
" Angel," said he sadly, " I am old ! 

" I have tottered here to look once more 
On the pleasant scene where I delighted 

In the careless, happy days of yore. 

Ere the garden of my heart was Ijlighted 
To the core; 

I have tottered here to look once more ! 

J' All the picture now to me how dear ! 
E'en this gray old rock where I am 
seated 
Seems a jewel worth my journey here; 
Ah, that such a scene should be com- 
pleted 

With a tear ! 
All the picture now to me how dear f 

" Old stone school-house ! — it is still the 
same ! 
There 's the very step so oft I mounted; 
There 's the window creaking in its frame. 
And the notches that I cut and counted 
For the game : 
Old stone school-house ! — it is still the 
same ! 

" In the cottage yonder I was born ; 

Long my happy home — that humble 
dwelling; 
There the fields of clover, wheat, and 
corn. 
There the spring with limpid nectar 
swelling; 
Ah, forlorn ! 
In the cottage yonder I was born. 

" Those two gateway sycamores you see 
Then were planted, just so far asunder 

That long well-pole from the path to free, 
And the wagon to pass safely under; 
Ninety-three ! 

Those two gateway sycamores you see. 

" There 's the orchard where we used to 
climb 
When my mates and I were boys to- 
gether, 
Thinking nothing of the flight of time. 
Fearing naught but work and rainy wea- 
ther; 

Past its prime ! 
There 's the orchard where we used to 
climb I 



" There the rude three-cornered chestnut 
rails. 
Round the pasture where the flocks were 
grazing, 
Where so sly I used to watch for quails 
In the crops of buckwheat we were rais- 

Traps and trails, 
There the rude three-cornered chestnut 
rails. 

" How in summer have I traced that stream. 
There through mead and woodland 
sweetly gliding, 
Luring simple trout with many a scheme 
From the nooks where I have found them 
hiding; 

All a dream ! 
How in summer have I traced that stream ! 

" There 's the mill that ground our yellow 
grain ; 
Pond and river still serenely flowing; 
Cot, there nestling in the shaded lane, 
Where the lily of my heart was blow- 
ing,— 

Mary Jane ! 
There's the mill that ground our yellow 
grain ! 

" There 's the gate on which I used to 
swing. 
Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red 
stable : 
But, alas ! the morn shall no more bring 
That dear group around my father's 
table ; 

Taken wing ! 
There 's the gate on which I used to swing ! 

" I am fleeing ! — all I loved are fled ; 
Yon green meadow was our place for 
playing; 
That old tree can tell of sweet things said, 
When around it Jane and I were stray- 
ing; 

She is dead ! 
I am fleeing ! — all I loved are fled ! 

" Yon white spire — a pencil on the sky. 
Tracing silently life's changeful story. 

So familiar to my dim old eye. 

Points me to seven that are now in glory 
There on high ! 

Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky. 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



" Oft the aisle of that old church we trod, 
Guided thither by au angel mother, — 

Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod. 
Sire and sisters, and my little brother; 
Gone to God ! 

Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. 

'' There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways ; 

Bless the holy lesson ! — but, ah, never 
Shall I hear again those songs of praise, 

Those sweet voices silent now forever ! 
Peaceful days ! 
There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways. 

" There my Mary blest me with her hand, 
When our souls drank in the nuptial 
blessing. 
Ere she hastened to the spirit land: 

Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing: 
Broken band ! 
There my Mary blest me with her hand. 

" I have come to see that grave once more, 
And the sacred place where we delight- 
ed, 



Where we worshipped in the days of yore, 
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted 
To the core; 
I have come to see that grave once more. 

" Haply, ere the verdure there shall fade, 
I, all withering with years, shall perish ; 

With my Mary may I there be laid, 
Join forever — all the wish I cherish — 
Her dear Shade ! — 

Haply, ere the verdure there shall fade." 

" Angel," said he sadly, " I am old ! 

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; 
Now why I sit here thou hast been told." 

In his eye another pearl of sorrow, — 
Down it rolled ; 
" Angel," said he sadly, " I am old ! " 

By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 
Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing; 

Still I marked him sitting there alone. 
All the landscape like a page perusing; 
Poor, unknown. 

By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 



€t>arlc^ ftnm i^offman 



SPARKLING AND BRIGHT 

Sparkling and bright in liquid light. 
Does the wine our goblets gleam in. 
With hue as red as the rosy bed 
Which a bee would choose to dream in. 
Then Jill to-night, with hearts as light, 

To loves as gay and fleeting 
As bubbles that. swim on the beaker's brim. 
And break on the lips while meeting. 

Oh ! if Mirth might arrest the flight 
Of Time through Life's dominions. 
We here a while would now beguile 
The graybeard of his pinions, 

To drink to-night, with hearts as light, 

To loves as gay and fleeting 
As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, 
And break on the lips while meeting. 

But since Delight can't tempt the wight, 
Nor fond Regret delay him. 
Nor Love himself can hold the elf, 
Nor sober Friendship stay him, 



We 'II drink to-night, loith hearts as light, 

To loves as gay and fleeting 
As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, 

And break on the lips while meeting. 



MONTEREY 

We were not many — we who stood 

Before the iron sleet that day — 
Yet many a gallant spirit would 
Give half his years if he then could 
Have been with us at Monterey. 

Now here, now there, the shot, it hailed 
In deadly drifts of fiery spray, 

Yet not a single soldier quailed 

When wounded comrades round them 
wailed 
Their dying shout at Monterey. 

And on — still on our column kept 

Through walls of flame its withering 
way; 



HOFFMAN — LONGFELLOW 



Where fell the dead, the living stept, 
Still charging on the guns which swept 
The slippery streets of Monterey. 

The foe himself recoiled aghast, 

When, striking where he strongest lay, 
We swooped his flanking batteries past. 
And braving full their murderous blast, 
Stormed home the towers of Monterey. 

Our banners on those turrets wave. 

And there our evening bugles play; 
Where orange boughs above their grave 
Keep green the memory of the brave 
Who fought and fell at Monterey. 

We are not many — we who pressed 

Beside the brave who fell that day; 
But who of us has not confessed 
He 'd rather share their warrior rest. 
Than not have been at Monterey ? 



THE MINT JULEP 

'T IS said that the gods on Olympus of 
old 
(And who the bright legend profanes 
with a doujbt ?) 
One night, 'mid their revels, by Bacchus 
were told 
That his last butt of nectar had somehow 
run out ! 

But determined to send round the goblet 
once more. 
They sued to the fairer immortals for 
aid 
In composing a draught which, till drinking 
were o'er. 
Should cast every wine ever drank in 
the shade. 



Grave Ceres herself blithely yielded her 
corn. 
And the spirit that lives in each amber- 
hued grain. 
And which first had its birth from the dew 
of the morn, 
Was taught to steal out in bright dew- 
drops again. 

Pomona, whose choicest of fruits on the 
board 
Were scattered profusely in every one's 
reach, 
When called on a tribute to cull from the 
hoard. 
Expressed the mild juice of the delicate 
peach. 

The liquids were mingled while Venus 
looked on 
With glances so fraught with sweet 
magical power, 
That the honey of Hybla, e'en when they 
were gone. 
Has never been missed in the draught 
from that hour. 

Flora, then, from her bosom of fragrancy, 
shook. 
And with roseate fingers pressed down in 
the bowl. 
All dripping and fresh as it came from the 
brook. 
The herb whose aroma should flavor the 
whole. 

The draught was delicious, and loud the 
acclaim. 
Though something seemed wanting for 
all to bewail. 
But Juleps the drink of immortals became, 
When Jove himself added a handful of 
hail. 



^enrp ltE>ati^tDortj) Eongfelloto 



HYMN TO THE NIGHT 

I HEAED the trailing garments of the Night 
Sweep through her marble halls ! 

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with 
light 
From the celestial walls ! 



I felt her presence, by its spell of might, 

Stoop o'er me from above; 
The calm, majestic presence of the Night, 

As of the one I love. 

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, 
The manifold, soft chimes, 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, 
Like some old poet's rhymes. 

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air 

My spirit drank repose; 
The fountain of perpetual peace flows 
there, — 

From those deep cisterns flows. 

O holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear 

What man has borne before ! 
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, 

And they complain no more. 

Peace ! Peace ! Orestes-like I breathe this 



prayer 



Descend with broad-winged flight. 
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the 
most fair, 
The best-beloved Night ! 

A PSALM OF LIFE 

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN 
SAID TO THE PSALMIST 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 
Life is but an empty dream ! — 

For the soul is dead that slumbers. 
And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its goal; 
Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting. 

And our hearts, though stout and brave, 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world's broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of Life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle I 

Be a hero in the strife ! 

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
Act, — act in the living Present ! 

Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 



Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time ; 

Footprints, that perhaps another. 
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us then, be up and doing, 
With a heart for any fate; 

Still achieving, still pursuing, 
Learn to labor and to wait. 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOR 

" Speak ! speak ! thou fearful guest ! 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armor drest, 

Comest to daunt me ! 
Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 
But with thy fleshless palms 
Stretched, as if asking alms. 

Why dost thou haunt me ? " 

Then from those cavernous eyes 
Pale flashes seemed to rise, 
As when the Northern skies 

Gleam in December; 
And, like the water's flow 
Under December's snow, 
Came a dull voice of woe 

From the heart's chamber. 

" I was a Viking old ! 
My deeds, though manifold, 
No Skald in song has told. 

No Saga taught thee ! 
Take heed that in thy verse 
Thou dost the tale rehearse, 
Else dread a dead man's curse; 

For this I sought thee. 

" Far in the Northern Land, 
By the wild Baltic's strand, 
I, with my childish hand. 

Tamed the gerfalcon; 
And, with my skates fast-bound. 
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, 
That the poor whimpering hound 

Trembled to walk on. 



1 



HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW 



113 



" Oft to Lis frozen lair 


" While the brown ale he quaffed. 


Tracked I the grisly bear, 


Loud then the champion laughed, 


While from my path the hare 


And as the wind-gusts waft 


Fled like a shadow; 


The sea-foam brightly. 


Oft through the forest dark 


So the loud laugh of scorn. 


Followed the were- wolf 's bark, 


Out of those lips unshorn. 


Until the soaring lark 


From the deep drinking-horn 


Sang from the meadow. 


Blew the foam lightly. 


" But when I older grew, 


" She was a Prince's child, 


Joining a corsair's crew, 


I but a Viking wild, 


O'er the dark sea I flew 


And though she blushed and smiled, 


With the marauders. 


I was discarded ! 


Wild was the life we led; 


Should not the dove so white 


Many the souls that sped, 


Follow the sea-mew's flight ? 


Many the hearts that bled, 


Why did they leave that night 


By our stern orders. 


Her nest unguarded ? 


" Many a wassail-bout 


" Scarce had I put to sea, 


Wore the long Winter out; 


Bearing the maid with me, — 


Often our midnight shout 


Fairest of all was she 


Set the cocks crowing, 


Among the Norsemen ! — 


As we the Berserk's tale 


When on the white sea-strand, 


Measured in cups of ale, 


Waving his armed hand, 


Draining the oaken pail 


Saw we old Hildebrand, 


Filled to o'erflowing. 


With twenty horsemen. 


" Once as I told in glee 


" Then launched they to the blast. 


Tales of the stormy sea, 


Bent like a reed each mast. 


Soft eyes did gaze on me, 


Yet we were gaining fast. 


Burning yet tender; 


When the wind failed us; 


And as the white stars shine . 


And with a sudden flaw 


On the dark Norway pine. 


Came round the gusty Skaw, 


On that dark heart of mine 


So that our foe we saw 


Fell their soft splendor. 


Laugh as he hailed us. 


" I wooed the blue-eyed maid, 


" And as to catch the gale 


Yielding, yet half afraid, 


Round veered the flapping sail. 


And in the forest's shade 


' Death ! ' was the helmsman's hail. 


Our vows were plighted. 


' Death without quarter ! ' 


Under its loosened vest 


Midships with iron keel 


Fluttered her little breast, 


Struck we her ribs of steel; 


Like birds within their nest 


Down her black hulk did reel 


By the hawk frighted. 


Through the black water ! 


" Bright in her father's hall 


" As with his wings aslant. 


Shields gleamed upon the wall, 


Sails the fierce cormorant. 


Loud sang the minstrels all, 


Seeking some rocky haunt, 


Chanting his glory; 


With his prey laden. 


When of old Hildebrand 


So toward the open main. 


I asked his daughter's hand. 


Beating to sea again. 


Mute did the minstrels stand 


Through the wild hurricane, 


To hear my story. 


Bore I the maiden. 



114 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



" Three weeks we westward bore, 


You can hear him swing his heavy sledge 


And when the storm was o'er, 


With measured beat and slow. 


Cloud-like we saw the shore 


Like a sexton ringing the village bell. 


Stretching to leeward; 


When the evening sun is low. 


There for my lady's bower 




Built I the lofty tower, 


And children coming home from school 


Which, to this very hour, 


Look in at the open door; 


Stands looking seaward. 


They love to see the flaming forge, 




And hear the bellows roar. 


" There lived we many years ; 


And catch the burning sparks that fly 


Time dried the maiden's tears; 


Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 


She had forgot her fears. 




She was a mother; 


He goes on Sunday to the church. 


Death closed her mild blue eyes; 


And sits among his boys ; 


Under that tower she lies; 


He hears the parson pray and preach, 


Ne'er shall the sun arise 


He hears his daughter's voice. 


On such another. 


Singing in the village choir. 




And it makes his heart rejoice. 


** Still grew my bosom then, 




Still as a stagnant fen ! 


It sounds to him like her mother's voice. 


Hateful to me were men, 


Singing in Paradise ! 


The sunlight hateful ! 


He needs must think of her once more. 


In the vast forest here. 


How in the grave she lies; 


Clad in my warlike gear. 


And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 


Fell I upon my spear, 


A tear out of his eyes. 


Oh, death was grateful ! 






Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, 


" Thus, seamed with many scars. 


Onward through life he goes; 


Bursting these prison bars. 


Each morning sees some task begin. 


Up to its native stars 


Each evening sees its close; 


My soul ascended ! 


Something attempted, something done. 


There from the flowing bowl 


Has earned a night's repose. 


Deep drinks the warrior's soul, 




Skoal ! to the Northland ! skoal ! " 


Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend. 


Thus the tale ended. 


For the lesson thou hast taught ! 




Thus at the flaming forge of life 




Our fortunes must be wrought; 


THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH 


Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 




Each burning deed and thought ! 


Under a spreading chestnut-tree 




The village smithy stands; 




The smith, a mighty man is he. 


ENDYMION 


With large and sinewy hands; 




And the muscles of his brawny arms 


The rising moon has hid the stars; 


Are strong as iron bands. 


Her level rays, like golden bars, 




Lie on the landscape green, 


His hair is crisp, and black, and long. 


With shadows brown between. 


His face is like the tan; 




His brow is wet with honest sweat, 


And silver white the river gleams. 


He earns whate'er he can. 


As if Diana, in her dreams. 


And looks the whole world in the face, 


Had dropt her silver bow 


For he owes not any man. 


Upon the meadows low. 


Week in, week out, from morn till night, 


On such a tranquil night as this. 


You can hear his bellows blow; 


She woke Endymion with a kiss. 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



"5 



When, sleeping in tlie grove, 
He dreamed not of her love. 

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, 
Love gives itself, but is not bought; 
Nor voice, nor sound betrays 
Its deep, impassioned gaze. 

It comes, — the beautiful, the free, 
The crown of all humanity, — 

In silence and alone 

To seek the elected one. 

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep 
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, 
And kisses the closed eyes 
Of him who slumbering lies. 

O weary hearts ! O slumbering eyes ! 
drooping souls, whose destinies 

Are fraught with fear and pain. 

Ye shall be loved again ! 

No one is so accursed by fate. 
No one so utterly desolate. 

But some heart, thovxgh unknown, 

Responds unto his own. 

Responds, — as if with unseen wings 
An angel touched its quivering strings; 
And whispers, in its song, 
"Where hast thou stayed so long ? " 



SERENADE FROM "THE SPAN- 
ISH STUDENT" 

Stars of the summer night ! 

Far in yon azure deeps. 
Hide, hide your golden light ! 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Moon of the summer night ! 

Far down yon western steeps. 
Sink, sink in silver light ! 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Wind of the summer night ! 

Where yonder woodbine creeps. 
Fold, fold thy pinions light ! 

She sleeps ! 



My lady sleeps ! 
Sleeps ! 

Dreams of the summer night ! 

Tell her, her lover keeps 
Watch ! while in slumbers light 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 



THE ARROW AND THE SONG 

I SHOT an arrow into the air. 
It fell to earth, I knew not where; 
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
Could not follow it in its flight. 

I breathed a song into the air, 
It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 
For who has sight so keen and strong 
That it can follow the flight of song ? 

Long, long afterward, in an oak 
I found the arrow, still unbroke; 
And the song, from beginning to end, 
I found again in the heart of a friend. 



DANTE 

Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms 

of gloom. 
With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic 

eyes. 
Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul 

arise. 
Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. 
Thy sacred song is like the trump of 

doom; 
Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, 
What soft compassion glows, as in the 

skies 
The tender stars their clouded lamps re- 
lume ! 
Methinks I see thee stand with pallid 

cheeks 
By Fra Hilario in his diocese. 
As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks. 
The ascending sunbeams mark the day's 

decrease ; 
And, as he asks what there the stranger 

seeks. 
Thy voice along the cloister whispers 

"Peace!" 



ii6 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



CURFEW 


Stalworth and stately in form was the man 




of seventy winters; 


Solemnly, mournfully, 


Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is 


Dealing its dole, 


covered with snowflakes; 


The Curfew Bell 


White as the snow were his locks, and his 


Is beginning to toU. 


cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves. 




Fair was she to behold, that maiden of 


Cover the embers. 


seventeen summers. 


And put out the light; 


Black were her eyes as the berry that grows 


Toil comes with the morning, 


on the thorn by the wayside. 


And rest with the night. 


Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath 




the brown shade of her tresses ! 


Dark grow the windows, 


Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine 


And quenched is the fire; 


that feed in the meadows. 


Sound fades into silence, — 


When in the harvest heat she bore to the 


All footsteps retire. 


reapers at noontide 




Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah ! fair in 


No voice in the chambers, 


sooth was the maiden. 


No sound in the hall ! 


Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn. 


Sleep and oblivion 


while the bell from its turret 


Reign over all ! 


Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the 




priest witli his hyssop 


The book is completed. 


Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters 


And closed, like the day; 


blessings upon them, 


And the hand that has written it 


Down the long street she passed, with her 


Lays it away. 


chaplet of beads and her missal, 




Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle 


Dim grow its fancies; 


of blue, and the ear-rings. 


Forgotten they lie; 


Brought in the olden time from France, and 


Like coals in the ashes, 


since, as an heirloom. 


They darken and die. 


Handed down from mother to child, 




through long generations. 


Song sinks into silence. 


But a celestial brightness — a more ethereal 


The story is told, 


beauty — 


The windows are darkened, 


Shone on her face and encircled her form, 


The hearth-stone is cold. 


when, after confession. 




Homeward serenely she walked with God's 


Darker and darker 


benediction upon her. 


The black shadows fall; 


When she had passed, it seemed like the 


Sleep and oblivion 


ceasing of exquisite music. 


Eeigu over alL 






Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the 




house of the farmer 


FROM "EVANGELINE" 


Stood on the side of a hill commanding the 




sea; and a shady 


EVANGELINE IN ACADIE 


Sycamore grew by the door, with a 




woodbine wreathing around it. 


Somewhat apart from the village, and 


Rudely carved was the porch, with seats 


nearer the Basin of Minas, 


beneath; and a footpath 


Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest 


Led through an orchard wide, and disap- 


farmer of Grand-Pr^, 


peared in the meadow. 


Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him. 


Under the sycamore-tree were hives over- 


directing his household, 


hung by a penthouse. 


Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the 


Such as the traveller sees in regions remote 


pride of the village. 


by the roadside, 



I 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



117 



Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed 

image of Mary. 
Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was 

the well with its moss-grown 
Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a 

trough for the horses. 
Shielding the house from storms, on the 

north, were the barns and the farm- 
yard. 
There stood the broad-wheeled wains and 

the antique ploughs and the harrows; 
There were the folds for the sheep; and 

there, in his feathered seraglio. 
Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the 

cock, with the selfsame 
Voice that in ages of old had startled the 

penitent Peter. 
Bursting with hay were the barns, them- 
selves a village. In each one 
Far o'er the gable projected a roof of 

thatch; and a staircase. 
Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the 

odorous corn-loft. 
There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek 

and innocent inmates 
Murmuring ever of love; while above in 

the variant breezes 
Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and 

sang of mutation. 

ON THE ATCHAFALAYA 

Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the 

slight undulations 
Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent 

in beauty, the lotus 
Lifted her golden crown above the heads of 

the boatmen. 
Faint was the air with the odorous breath 

of magnolia blossoms, 
And with the heat of noon; and number- 
less sylvan islands. 
Fragrant and thickly embowered with 

blossoming hedges of roses. 
Near to whose shores they glided along, 

invited to slumber. 
Soon by the fairest of these their weary 

oars were suspended. 
Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that 

grew by the margin. 
Safely their boat was moored ; and scattered 

about on the greensward, 
Tired with their midnight toil, the weary 

travellers slumbered. 
Over them vast and high extended the cope 

of a cedar. 



Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet- 
flower and the grapevine 

Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the 
ladder of Jacob, 

On whose pendulous stairs the angels as- 
cending, descending. 

Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted 
from blossom to blossom. 

Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she 
slumbered beneath it. 

Filled was her heart with love, and the 
dawn of an opening heaven 

Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of 
regions celestial. 

Softly the evening came. The sun from 

the western horizon 
Like a magician extended his golden wand 

o'er the landscape; 
Twinkling vapors arose ; and sky and water 

and forest 
Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted 

and mingled together. 
Hanging between two skies, a cloud with 

edges of silver. 
Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on 

the motionless water. 
Filled was Evangeline's heart with inex- 
pressible sweetness. 
Touched by the magic spell, the sacred 

fountains of feeling 
Glowed with the light of love, as the skies 

and waters around her. 
Then from a neighboring thicket the mock- 
ing-bird, wildest of singers, 
Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung 

o'er the water. 
Shook from his little throat such floods of 

delirious music. 
That the whole air and the woods and the 

waves seemed silent to listen. 
Plaintive at first were the tones and sad: 

then, soaring to madness. 
Seemed they to follow or guide the revel 

of frenzied Bacchantes. 
Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, 

low lamentation; 
Till, having gathered them all, he flung 

them abroad in derision, 
As when, after a storm, a gust of wind 

through the tree-tops 
Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal 

shower on the branches. 
With such a prelude as this, and hearts 

that throbbed with emotion, 



ii8 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Slowly they entered the Teche, where it 
flows through the green Opelousas, 

And, through the amber air, above the crest 
of the woodland, 

Saw the column of smoke that arose from 
a neighboring dwelling ; — 

Sounds of a horn they heard, and the dis- 
tant lowing of cattle. 

THE FINDING OF GABRIEL 

Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell 

on the city. 
Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by 

flocks of wild pigeons, 
Darkening the sun in their flight, with 

naught in their craws but an acorn. 
And, as the tides of the sea arise in the 

month of September, 
Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads 

to a lake in the meadow. 
So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its 

natural margin. 
Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream 

of existence. 
Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty 

to charm, the oppressor; 
But all perished alike beneath the scourge 

of his anger; — 
Only, alas ! the poor, who had neither 

friends nor attendants. 
Crept away to die in the almshouse, home 

of the homeless. 
Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst 

of meadows and woodlands; — 
Now the city surrounds it; but still, with 

its gateway and wicket 
Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble 

walls seem to echo 
Softly the words of the Lord : — " The 

poor ye always have with you." 
Thither, by night and by day, came the 

Sister of Mercy. The dying 
Looked up into her face, and thought, in- 
deed, to behold there 
Gleams of celestial light encircle her fore- 
head with splendor. 
Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of 

saints and apostles. 
Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen 

at a distance. 
Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the 

city celestial, 
Into whose shining gates erelong their 

spirits would enter. 



Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the 

streets, deserted and silent. 
Wending her quiet way, she entered the 

door of the almshouse. 
Sweet on the summer air was the odor of 

flowers in the garden ; 
And she paused on her way to gather the 

fairest among them. 
That the dying once more might rejoice in 

their fragrance and beauty. 
Then, as she mounted the stairs to the cor- 
ridors, cooled by the east-wind, 
Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes 

from the belfry of Christ Church, 
While intermingled with these, across the 

meadows were wafted 
Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the 

Swedes in their church at Wicaco. 
Soft as descending wings fell the calm of 

the hour on her spirit; 
Something within her said, " At length 

thy trials are ended ; " 
And, with light in her looks, she entered 

the chambers of sickness. 
Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, 

carefid attendants, 
Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching 

brow, and in silence 
Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and 

concealing their faces. 
Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts 

of snow by the roadside. 
Many a languid head, upraised as Evan- 
geline entered. 
Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while 

she passed, for her presence 
Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on 

the walls of a prison. 
And, as she looked around, she saw how 

Death, the consoler. 
Laying his hand upon many a heart, had 

healed it forever. 
Many familiar forms had disappeared in 

the night-time; 
Vacant their places were, or filled already 

by strangers. 

Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feel- 
ing of wonder. 

Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, 
while a shudder 

Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, 
the flowerets dropped from her fin= 
gers, 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



119 



Aud from her eyes and cheeks the light 

and bloom of the morning. 
Then there escaped from her lips a cry of 

such terrible anguish, 
That the dying heard it, and started up 

from their pillows. 
On the pallet before her was stretched the 

form of an old man. 
Long, and thin, and gray were the locks 

that shaded his temples; 
But, as he lay in the morning light, his face 

for a moment 
Seemed to assume once more the forms of 

its earlier manhood; 
So are wont to be changed the faces of 

those who are dying. 
Hot and red on his lips still burned the 

flush of the fever. 
As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had 

besprinkled its portals. 
That the Angel of Death might see the 

sign, and pass over. 
Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his 

spirit exhausted 
Seemed to be sinking down through infinite 

depths in the darkness — 
Darkness of slumber and death, forever 

sinking and sinking. 
Then through those realms of shade, in 

multiplied reverberations. 
Heard he that cry of pain, and through the 

hush that succeeded 
Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender 

and saintlike, 
" Gabriel ! O my beloved ! " and died away 

into silence. 
Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the 

home of his childhood; 
Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers 

among them. 
Village, and mountain, and woodlands ; and 

walking uuder their shadow. 
As in the days of her youth, Evangeline 

rose in his vision. 
Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he 

lifted his eyelids. 
Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline 

knelt by his bedside. 
Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for 

the accents unuttered 
Died on his lips, and their motion re- 
vealed what his tongue would have 

spoken. 
Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, 

kneeling beside him. 



Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on 
her bosom. 

Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it sud- 
denly sank into darkness. 

As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of 
wind at a casement. 

All was ended now, the hope, and the 
fear, and the sorrow, 

All the aching of heart, the restless, unsat- 
isfied longing. 

All the dull, deep pain, and constant an- 
guish of patience ! 

And, as she pressed once more the lifeless 
head to her bosom. 

Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, 
" Father, I thank thee ! " 

FROM "THE BUILDING OF 
THE SHIP" 

THE REPUBLIC 

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! 
Sail on, O Union, strong and great ! 
Humanity with all its fears. 
With all the hopes of future years, 
Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 
We know what Master laid thy keel. 
What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, 
What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 
In what a forge and what a heat 
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope i 
Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 
'T is of the wave and not the rock; 
'T is but the flapping of the sail. 
And not a rent made by the gale ! 
In spite of rock and tempest's roar, 
In spite of false lights on the shore, 
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! 
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, 
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, oui 

tears, 
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, 
Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! 

FROM "THE SONG OF 
HIAWATHA" 

THE DEATH OF ^INNEHAHA 

All day long roved Hiawatha 

In that melancholy forest. 

Through the shadow of whose thieketS; 



I20 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



In the pleasant clays of Summer, 

Of that ne'er forgotten Summer, 

He had brought his young wife homeward 

From the land of the Dacotahs; 

When the birds sang in the thickets. 

And the streamlets laughed and glistened, 

And the air was full of fragrance. 

And the lovely Laughing Water 

Said with voice that did not tremble, 

"I will follow you, my husband ! " 

In the wigwam with Nokomis, 
With those gloomy guests that watched her, 
With the Famine and the Fever, 
She was lying, the Beloved, 
She, the dying Minnehaha. 

" Hark ! " she said; " I hear a rushing, 
Hear a roaring and a rushing, 
Hear the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to me from a distance ! " 
" No, my child ! " said old Nokomis, 
" 'T is the night-wind in the pine-tcees ! " 

" Look ! " she said; " I see my father 
Standing lonely at his doorway, 
Beckoning to me from his wigwam 
In the land of the Dacotahs ! " 
" No, my child ! " said old Nokomis, 
" 'T is the smoke, that waves and beckons ! " 

" Ah ! " said she, " the eyes of Pauguk 
Glare upon me in the darkness, 
I can feel his icy fingers 
Clasping mine amid the darkness ! 
Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! " 

And the desolate Hiawatha, 
Far away amid the forest. 
Miles away among the mountains, 
Heard that sudden cry of anguish, 
Heard the voice of Minnehaha 
Calling to him in the darkness, 
" Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! " 

Over snow-fields waste and pathless, 
Under snow-encumbered branches, 
Homeward hurried Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted. 
Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing: 
" Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! 
Would that I had perished for you. 
Would that I were dead as you are ! 
Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! " 

And he rushed into the wigwam, 
Saw the old Nokomis slowly 
Rocking to and fro and moaning, 
Saw his lovely Minnehaha 
Lying dead and cold before him. 
And his bursting heart within him 
Uttered such a cry of anguish. 



That the forest moaned and shuddered, 

That the very stars in heaven 

Shook and trembled with his anguish. 

Then he sat down, still and speechless, 
On the bed of Minnehaha, 
At the feet of Laughing Water, 
At those willing feet, that never 
More would lightly run to meet him. 
Never more would lightly follow. 

With both hands his face he covered, 
Seven long days and nights he sat there. 
As if in a swoon he sat there, 
Speechless, motionless, unconscious 
Of the daylight or the darkness. 

Then they buried Minnehaha; 
In the snow a grave they made her, 
In the forest deep and darksome. 
Underneath the moaning hemlocks; 
Clothed her in her richest garments, 
Wrapped her in her robes of ermine. 
Covered her with snow, like ermine; 
Thus they buried Minnehaha. 

And at night a fire was lighted, 
On her grave four times was kindled. 
For her soul upon its journey 
To the Islands of the Blessed. 
From his doorway Hiawatha 
Saw it burning in the forest. 
Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks; 
From his sleepless bed uprising, 
From the bed of Minnehaha, '^ 

Stood and watched it at the doorway. 
That it might not be extinguished. 
Might not leave her in the darkness. 

" Farewell ! " said he, " Minnehaha ! 
Farewell, O my Laughing Water ! 
All my heart is buried with you, 
All my thoughts go onward with you ! 
Come not back again to labor, 
Come not back again to suffer. 
Where the Famine and the Fever 
Wear the heart and waste the body. 
Soon my task will be completed. 
Soon your footsteps I shall follow 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 
To the Kingdom of Ponemah, 
To the Land of the Hereafter ! " 



THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE 
PORTS 

A MIST was driving down the British 
Channel, 
The day was just begun. 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



And through the window-panes, on floor 
and panel, 
Streamed the red autumn sun. 

It glanced on flowing flag and rippling 
pennon, 
And the white sails of ships; 
And, from the frowning rampart, the black 
cannon 
Hailed it with feverish lips. 

Sandwich and Eomney, Hastings, Hithe, 
and Dover 
Were all alert that day. 
To see the French war-steamers speeding 
over, 
When the fog cleared away. 

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, 
Their cannon, through the night, 

Holding their breath, had watched, in grim 
defiance. 
The sea-coast opposite. 

And now they roared at drum-beat from 
their stations 
On every citadel; 
Each answering each, with morning saluta- 
tions, 
That all was well. 

And down the coast, all taking up the 
burden. 

Replied the distant forts. 
As if to summon from his sleep the Warden 

And Lord of the Cinque Ports. 

Him shall no sunshine from the fields of 
azure, 
Xo drum-beat from the wall, 
No morning gun from the black fort's em- 
brasure. 
Awaken with its call ! 

No more, surveying with an eye impartial 

The long line of the coast. 
Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field 
Marshal 

Be seen upon his post ! 

For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, 

In sombre harness mailed. 
Dreaded of man, and surnamed the De- 
stroyer, 

The rampart wall had scaled. 



He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, 

The dax'k and silent room. 
And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, 

The silence and the gloom. 

He did not pause to parley or dissemble, 

But smote the Warden hoar; 
Ah ! what a blow ! that made all England 
tremble 

And groan from shore to shore. 

Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon 
waited, 

The sun rose bright o'erhead ; 
Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated 

That a great man was dead. 



MY LOST YOUTH 

Often I think of the beautiful town 

That is seated by the sea; 
Often in thought go up and down 
The pleasant streets of that dear old town. 
And my youth comes back to me. 
And a verse of a Lapland song 
Is haunting my memory still: 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, 

And catch, in sudden gleams. 
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, 
And islands that were the Hesperides 
Of all my boyish dreams. 

And the burden of that old song. 
It murmurs and whispers still: 
" A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

I remember the black wharves and the slips, 

And the sea-tides tossing free; 
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips. 
And the beauty and mystery of the ships, 
And the magic of the sea. 

And the voice of that wayward song 
Is singing and saying still: 
" A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

I remember the bulwarks by the shore, 
And the fort upon the hill; 



122 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, 
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, 
And the bugle wild and shrill. 
And the music of that old song 
Throbs in my memory still: 
"A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

I remember the sea-fight far away, 
How it thundered o'er the tide ! 
And the dead captains, as they lay 
In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil 
bay 
Where they in battle died. 

And the sound of that mournful song 
Goes through me with a thrill : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

I can see the breezy dome of groves. 
The shadows of Deeriug's Woods; 
And the friendships old and the early loves 
Cope back with a Sabbath sound, as of 
doves 
In quiet neighborhoods. 

And the verse of that sweet old song. 
It flutters and murmurs still: 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart 

Across the school-boy's brain; 
The song and the silence in the heart. 
That in part are prophecies, and in part 
Are longings wild and vain. 

And the voice of that fitful song 
Sings on, and is never still: 
" A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

There are things of which I may not speak; 

There are dreams that cannot die; 
There are thoughts that make the strong 

heart weak, 
And bring a pallor into the cheek. 
And a mist before the eye. 

And the words of that fatal song 
Come over me like a chill: 
" A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 



Strange to me now are the forms I meet 

When I visit the dear old town; 
But the native air is pure and sweet. 
And the trees that o'ershadow each well- 
known street. 
As they balance up and down, 
Are singing the beautiful song. 
Are sighing and whispering still: 
" A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, 

And with joy that is almost pain 
My heart goes back to wander there. 
And among the dreams of the days that 
were, 
I find my lost youth again. 

And the strange and beautiful song, 
The groves are repeating it still: 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 



THE CHILDREN'S HOUR 

Between the dark and the daylight. 
When the night is beginning to lower, 

Comes a pause in the day's occupations, 
That is known as the Children's Hour. 

I hear in the chamber above me 

The patter of little feet. 
The sound of a door that is opened, 

And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight, 
Descending the broad hall stair, 

Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, 
And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper, and then a silence: 
Yet I know by their merry eyes 

They are plotting and planning together 
To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway, 
A sudden raid from the hall ! 

By three doors left unguarded 
They enter my castle wall I 

They climb up into my turret 

O'er the arms and back of my chair; 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



123 



If I try to escape, tliey surround me; 
They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 
Their arms about me entwine. 

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine ! 

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, 
Because you have sealed the wall. 

Such an old mustache as I am 
Is not a match for you all ! 

I have you fast in my fortress, 
And will not let you depart. 

But put you down into the dungeon 
In the round-tower of my heart. 

And there will I keep you forever. 

Yes, forever and a day, 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 

And moulder in dust away. 



THE CUMBERLAND 

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay. 
On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of- 
war; 
And at times from the fortress across the 
bay 
The alarum of drums swept past, 
Or a bugle blast 
From the camp on the shore. 

Then far away to the south uprose 

A little feather of snow-white smoke. 
And we knew that the iron ship of our foes 
Was steadily steering its course 
To try the force 
Of our ribs of oak. 

Down upon us heavily runs. 

Silent and sullen, the floating fort; 
Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, 
And leaps the terrible death. 
With fiery breath, 
From each open port. 

We are not idle, but send her straight 

Defiance back in a full broadside ! 
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate. 
Rebounds our heavier hail 
From each iron scale 
Of the monster's hide. 



" Strike your flag ! " the rebel cries. 

In his arrogant old plantation strain. 
"Never ! " our gallant Morris replies; 
" It is better to sink than to yield ! " 
And the whole air pealed 
With the cheers of our men. 

Then, like a kraken huge and black. 

She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp ! 
Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, 
With a sudden shudder of death, 
And the cannon's breath 
For her dying gasp. 

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay. 
Still floated our flag at the mainmast 
head. 
Lord, how beautiful was Thy day ! 
Every waft of the air 
Was a whisper of prayer, 
Or a dirge for the dead. 

Ho ! brave hearts that went down in the 
seas ! 
Ye are at peace in the troubled stream; 
Ho ! brave land ! with hearts like these. 
Thy flag, that is rent in twain, 
Shall be one again, 
And without a seam ! 



THE BELLS OF LYNN 

O CURFEW of the setting sun ! O Bells of 

Lynn ! 
O requiem of the dying day ! O Bells of 

Lynn ! 

From the dark belfries of yon cloud-cathe- 
dral wafted, 

Your sounds aerial seem to float, O Bells of 
Lynn ! 

Borne on the evening wind across the crim- 
son twilight, 

O'er land and sea they rise and fall, O 
Bells of Lynn ! 

The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond 

the headland, 
Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells 

of Lynn 1 

Over the shining sands the wandering cat- 
tie homeward 



124 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Follow each other at your call, O Bells of 
Lynn ! 

The distant lighthouse hears, and with his 

flaming signal 
Answers you, passing the watchword on, 

O Bells of Lynn ! 

And down the darkening coast run the tu- 
multuous surges. 

And clap their hands, and shout to you, O 
Bells of Lynn ! 

Till from the shuddering sea, with your 

wild incantations. 
Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells 

of Lynn ! 

And startled at the sight, like the weird 

woman of Endor, 
Ye cry aloud, and then are still, Bells of 

Lynn ! 



CHAUCER 

An old man in a lodge within a park; 
The chamber walls depicted all around 
With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and 

hound, 
And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the 

lark, 
Whose song comes with the sunshine 

through the dark 
Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound; 
He listeneth and he laugheth at the sound. 
Then writeth in a book like any clerk. 
He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote 
The Canterbury Tales, and his old age 
Made beautiful with song; and as I read 
I hear the crowing cock, I hear the note 
Of lark and linnet, and from every page 
Rise odors of ploughed field or flowery 

mead. 



MILTON 

I PACE the sounding sea-beach and behold 
How the voluminous billows roll and run, 
Upheaving and subsiding, while the sun 
Shines through their sheeted emerald far 

unrolled, 
And the ninth wave, slow gathering fold by 

fold 



All its loose-flowing garments into one. 
Plunges upon the shore, and floods the dun 
Pale reach of sands, and changes them to 

gold. 
So in majestic cadence rise and fall 
The mighty undulations of thy song, 
O sightless bard, England's Mseonides! 
And ever and anon, high over all 
Uplifted, a ninth wave superb and strong 
Floods all the soul with its melodious seas. 



NATURE 

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, 
Leads by the hand her little child to bed, 
Half willing, half reluctant to be led. 
And leave his broken playthings on the 

floor. 
Still gazing at them through the open door, 
Nor wholly reassured and comforted 
By promises of others in their stead. 
Which, though more splendid, ruay not 

please him more; 
So Nature deals with us, and takes away 
Our playthings one by one, and by the hand 
Leads us to rest so gently, that we go 
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, 
Being too full of sleep to understand 
How far the unknown transcends the what 

we know. 



WAPENTAKE 

. TO ALFRED TENNYSON 

Poet ! I come to touch thy lance with 

mine ; 
Not as a knight, who on the listed field 
Of tourney touched his adversary's shield 
In token of defiance, but in sign 
Of homage to the mastery, which is thine. 
In English song; nor will I keep concealed, 
And voiceless as a rivulet frost-congealed, 
My admiration for thy verse divine. 
Not of the howling dervishes of song. 
Who craze the brain with their delirious 

dance. 
Art thou, O sweet historian of the heart ! 
Therefore to thee the laurel-leaves belong, 
To thee our love and our allegiance, 
For thy allegiance to the poet's art. 



HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW 



I2S 



A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH 


Down on the reeling decks 


FLEET 


Crashed the o'erwhelming seas; 




Ah, never were there wrecks 


OCTOBER, 1746 


So pitiful as these ! 


Mr. Thomas Prince loquitur 


Like a potter's vessel broke 


A FLEET with flags arrayed 


The great ships of the line ; 


Sailed from the port of Brest, 


They were carried away as a smoke, 


And the Admiral's ship displayed 


Or sank like lead in the brine. 


The signal: "Steer southwest." 


Lord ! before thy path 


For this Admiral D'Anville 


They vanished and ceased to be, 


Had sworn by cross and crown 


When thou didst walk in wrath 


To ravage with fire and steel 


With thine horses through the sea ! 


Our helpless Boston Town. 




There were rumors in the street, 


JUGURTHA 


In the houses there was fear 




Of the coming of the fleet, 


How cold are thy baths, Apollo ! 


And the danger hovering near. 


Cried the African monarch, the splen- 


And while from mouth to mouth 


did. 


Spread the tidings of dismay, 


As down to his death in the hollow 


I stood in the Old South, 


Dark dungeons of Rome he descended, 


Saying humbly: "Let us pray ! 


Uncrowned, unthroned, unattended; 




How cold are thy baths, Apollo ! 


•' Lord ! we would not advise ; 




But if in thy Providence 


How cold are thy baths, Apollo ! 


A tempest should arise 


Cried the Poet, unknown, unbefriended, 


To drive the French Fleet hence, 


As the vision, that lured him to follow, 


And scatter it far and wide, 


With the mist and the darkness blended; 


Or sink it in the sea. 


And the dream of his life was ended; 


We should be satisfied, 


How cold are thy baths, Apollo ! 


And thine the glory be." 




This was the prayer I made, 


THE TIDE RISES, THE TIDE 


For my soul was all on flame, 


FALLS 


And even as I prayed 




The answering tempest came; 


The tide rises, the tide falls, 


It came with a mighty power. 


The twilight darkens, the curlew calls; 


Shaking the windows and walls, 


Along the sea-sands damp and brown 


And tolling the bell in the tower, 


The traveller hastens toward the town. 


As it tolls at funerals. 


And the tide rises, the tide falls. 


The lightning suddenly 


Darkness settles on roofs and walls. 


Unsheathed its flaming sword. 


But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls; 


And I cried : " Stand still, and see 


The little waves, with their soft, white 


The salvation of the Lord ! " 


hands. 


The heavens were black with cloud, 


Efface the footprints in the sands, 


The sea was white with hail. 


And the tide rises, the tide falls. 


And ever more fierce and loud 




Blew the October gale. 


The morning breaks; the steeds in their 




stalls 


The fleet it overtook. 


Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls; 


And the broad sails in the van 


The day returns, but nevermore 


Like the tents of Cushan shook, 


Returns the traveller to the shore, 


Or the curtains of Midian. 


And the tide rises, the tide falls. 



126 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



MY BOOKS 

Sadly as some old mediseval knight 
Gazed at the arms he could no longer 

wield, 
The sword two-handed and the shining 

shield 
Suspended in the hall, and full in sight. 
While secret longings for the lost delight 
Of tourney or adventure in the field 



Came over him, and tears but half con- 
cealed 
Trembled and fell upon his beard of white, 
So I behold these books upon their shelf, 
My ornaments and arms of other days; 
Not wholly useless, though no longer used. 
For they remind me of my other self, 
Younger and stronger, and the pleasant 

ways 
In which I walked, now clouded and con- 
fused. 



aEIi5a6ftf) ODafee^ ^mitfj 



FROM "THE SINLESS CHILD" 

Her ways were gentle while a babe, 

With calm and tranquil eye, 
That turned instinctively to seek 

The blueness of the sky. 
A holy smUe was on her lip 

Whenever sleep was there ; 
She slept, as sleeps the blossom, hushed 

Amid the silent air. 

And ere she left with tottling steps 

The low-roofed cottage door. 
The beetle and the cricket loved 

The young child on the floor; 
For every insect dwelt secure 

Where little Eva played. 
And piped for her its blithest song 

When she in greenwood strayed. 

With wing of gauze and mailed coat 

They gathered round her feet, 
Rejoiced, as are all gladsome things, 

A truthful soul to greet. 
They taught her infant lips to sing 

With them a hymn of praise, 
The song that in the woods is heard. 

Through the long summer days. 

And ever3»where the child was traced 

By snatches of wild song 
That marked her feet along the vale 

Or hillside, fleet and strong. 
She knew the haunts of every bird — 

Where bloomed the sheltered flower, 
So sheltered that the searching frost 

Might scarcely find its bower. 



No loneliness young Eva knew, 

Though playmates she had none: 
Such sweet companionship was hers, 

She could not be alone; 
For everything in earth or sky 

Caressed the little child, — 
The joyous bird upon the wing, 

The blossom in the wild. 

Much dwelt she on the green hill-side, 

And under forest tree ; 
Beside the running, babbling brook, 

Where lithe trout sported free. 
She saw them dart, like stringed gems, 

Where the tangled roots were deep, 
And learned that love forevermore 

The heart will joyful keep. 

She loved all simple flowers that spring 

In grove or sunlit dell. 
And of each streak and varied hue 

Would pretty meanings tell. 
For her a language was impressed 

On every leaf that grew, 
And lines revealing brighter worlds 

That seraph fingers drew. 

The opening bud that lightly swung 

Upon the dewy air. 
Moved in its very sportiveness 

Beneath angelic care; 
She saw that pearly fingers oped 

Each curved and painted leaf. 
And where the canker-worm had been 

Were looks of angel grief. 

Each tiny leaf became a scroll 
Inscribed with holy truth, 



ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH 



127 



A lesson that around the heart 
Should keep the dew of youth, 

Bright missals from angelic throngs 
In every byway left : — 

How were the earth of glory shorn, 
Were it of flowers bereft ! 

Young Eva said all noisome weeds 

Would pass from earth away, 
When virtue in the human heart 

Held its predestined sway. 
Exalted thoughts were always hers, 

Some deemed them strange and wild; 
And hence, in all the hamlets round. 

Her name of Sinless Child. 



THE DROWNED MARINER 

A MARINER sat on the shrouds one night; 
The wind was piping free; 

Now bright, now dimmed was the moon- 
light pale. 

And the phosphor gleamed in the wake of 
the whale, 
As he floundered in the sea; 

The scud was flying athwart the sky. 

The gathering winds went whistling by. 

And the wave as it towered, then fell in 
spray. 

Looked an emerald wall in the moonlight 
ray. 

The mariner swayed and rocked on the 
mast. 
But the tumult pleased him well; 
Down the yawning wave his eye he cast. 
And the monsters watched as they hurried 



Or lightly rose and fell; 
For their broad, damp fins were under the 

tide. 
And they lashed as they passed the vessel's 

side. 
And their filmy eyes, all huge and grim, 
Glared fiercely up, and they glared at him. 

Now freshens the gale, and the brave ship 
goes 
Like an uncurbed steed along; 
A sheet of flame is the spray she throws, 
As her gallant prow the water ploughs, 

But the ship is fleet and strong: 
The topsails are reefed and the sails are 
furled, 



And onward she sweeps o'er the watery 

world, 
And dippeth her spars in the surging flood ; 
But there came no chill to the mariner's 

blood. 

Wildly she rocks, but he swingeth at ease, 
And holds him by the shroud; 

And as she careens to the crowding breeze, 

The gaping deep the mariner sees. 
And the surging heareth loud. 

Was that a face, looking up at him, 

With its pallid cheek and its cold eyes 
dim? 

Did it beckon him down ? did it call his 
name ? 

Now rolleth the ship the way whence it 



The mariner looked, and he saw with dread 

A face he knew too well; 
And the cold eyes glared, the eyes of the 

dead. 
And its long hair out on the wave was 

spread. 
Was there a tale to tell ? 
The stout ship rocked with a reeling speed, 
And the mariner groaned, as well he need; 
For, ever, down as she plunged on her side. 
The dead face gleamed from the briny 

tide. 

Bethink thee, mariner, well, of the past, — 

A voice calls loud for thee: — 
There 's a stifled prayer, the first, the 

last; — 
The plunging ship on her beam is cast, — 

Oh, where shall thy burial be ? 
Bethink thee of oaths that were lightly 

spoken. 
Bethink thee of vows that were lightly 

broken, 
Bethink thee of all that is dear to thee, 
For thou art alone on the raging sea: 

Alone in the dark, alone on the wave. 

To buffet the storm alone. 
To struggle aghast at thy watery grave. 
To struggle and feel there is none to save, — • 

God shield thee, helpless one ! 
The stout limbs yield, for their strength is 

past. 
The trembling hands on the deep are cast, 
The white brow gleams a moment more. 
Then slowly sinks — the struggle is o'er. 



128 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Down, down where the storm is hushed to 
sleep, 
Where the sea its dirge shall swell, 

Where the amber drops for thee shall weep, 

And the rose-lipped shell her music keep. 
There thou shalt slumber well. 

The gem and the pearl lie heaped at thy 
side. 

They fell from the neck of the beautiful 
bride. 

From the strong man's hand, from the maid- 
en's brow, 

As they slowly sunk to the wave below. 



A peopled home is the ocean bed; 
The mother and child are there; 

The fervent youth and the hoary head. 

The maid, with her floating locks out- 
spread, 
The babe with its silken hair; 

As the water moveth they lightly sway. 

And the tranquil lights on their features 
play; 

And there is each cherished and beautiful 
form. 

Away from decay, and away from the 
storm. 



3(ol)n oBrccnkaf IBJjttticr 



PROEM 

(written to introduce the first 
general collection of his poems) 

I LOVE the old melodious lays 
Which softly melt the ages through, 

The songs of Spenser's golden days. 
Arcadian Sidney's silvery phrase. 
Sprinkling our noon of time with freshest 
morning dew. 

Yet, vainly in my quiet hours 
To breathe their marvellous notes I try; 
I feel them, as the leaves and flowers 
In silence feel the dewy showers. 
And drink with glad, still lips the blessing 
of the sky. 

The rigor of a frozen clime. 
The harshness of an untaught ear. 

The jarring words of one whose rhyme 
Beat often Labor's hurried time. 
Or Duty's rugged march through storm 
and strife, aTe here. 

Of mystic beauty, dreamy grace. 
No rounded art the lack supplies; 

Unskilled the subtle lines to trace, 
Or softer shades of Nature's face, 
I view her common forms with unanointed 
eyes. 

Nor mine the seer-like power to show 
The secrets of the heart and mind; 



To drop the plummet-line below 
Our common world of joy and woe, 
A more intense despair or brighter hope to 
find. 

Yet here at least an earnest sense 
Of human right and weal is shown; 
A hate of tyranny intense. 
And hearty in its vehemence, 
As if my brother's pain and sorrow were 
my own. 

O Freedom ! if to me belong 
Nor mighty Milton's gift divine. 

Nor Marvell's wit and graceful song. 
Still with a love as deep and strong 
As theirs, I lay, like them, my best gifts on 
thy shrine ! 



THE FAREWELL 

OF A VIRGINIA SLAVE MOTHER TO HER 
DAUGHTERS SOLD INTO SOUTHERN 
BONDAGE 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings, 
Where the noisome insect stings, 
Where the fever demon strews 
Poison with the falling dews. 
Where the sickly sunbeams glare 
Through the hot and misty air; 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



129 



Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
From Virginia's hills and waters; 
Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
There no mother's eye is near them. 
There no mother's ear can hear them ; 
Never, when the torturing lash 
Seams their back with many a gash. 
Shall a mother's kindness bless them, 
Or a mother's arms caress them. 
Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
From Virginia's hills and waters; 
Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
O, when weary, sad, and slow. 
From the fields at night they go. 
Faint with toil, and racked with pain, 
To their cheerless homes again, 
There no brother's voice shall greet them; 
There no father's welcome meet them. 
Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
From Virginia's hills and waters; 
Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 

From the tree whose shadow lay 

On their childhood's place of play; 

From the cool spring where they drank; 

Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank; 

From the solemn house of prayer, 

And the holy counsels there; 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
From Virginia's hills and waters; 
Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone; 
Toiling through the weary day. 
And at night the spoiler's prey. 
Oh, that they had earlier died, 
Sleeping calmly, side by side. 
Where the tyrant's power is o'er, 
And the fetter galls no more ! ' 
Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 



From Virginia's hills and waters; 
Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
By the holy love He beareth ; 
By the bruised reed He spareth; 
Oh, may He, to whom alone 
All their cruel wrongs are known, 
Still their hope and refuge prove, 
With a more than mother's love. 
Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
From Virginia's hills and waters; 
Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 



ICHABOD 

So fallen ! so lost ! the light withdrawn 

Which once he wore ! 
The glory from his gray hairs gone 

Forevermore ! 

Revile him not, the Tempter hath 

A snare for all; 
And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, 

Befit his fall ! 

Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage, 

When he who might 
Have lighted up and led his age, 

Falls back in night. 

Scorn ! would the angels laugh, to mark 

A bright soul driven. 
Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, 

From hope and heaven ! 

Let not the land once proud of him 

Insult him now, 
Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, 

Dishonored brow. 

But let its humbled sons, instead. 

From sea to lake, 
A long lament, as for the dead, 

In sadness make. 

Of all we loved and honored, naught 

Save power remains ; 
A fallen angel's pride of thought, 

Still strong in chains. 



13° 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



All else is gone; from those great eyes 

The soul has fled: 
When faith is lost, when honor dies, 

The man is dead ! 

Then, pay the reverence of old days 

To his dead fame; 
Walk backward, with averted gaze. 

And hide the shame ! 



ASTR^A 

" Jove means to settle 
Astrsea in her seat again, 
And let down from his golden chain 

An age of better metal." 

Ben Jonson, 1615. 

O POET rare and old ! 

Thy words are prophecies; 
Forward the age of gold. 

The new Saturnian lies. 

The universal prayer 

And hope are not in vain; 

Rise, brothers ! and prepare 
The way for Saturn's reign. 

Perish shall all which takes 
From labor's board and can; 

Perish shall all which makes 
A spaniel of the man ! 

Free from its bonds the mind, 
The body from the rod; 

Broken all chains that bind 
The image of our God. 

Just men no longer pine 
Behind their prison-bars; 

Through the rent dungeon shine 
The free sun and the stars. 

Earth own, at last, untrod 
By sect, or caste, or clan. 

The fatherhood of God, 
The brotherhood of man ! 

Fraud fail, craft perish, forth 
The money-changers driven. 

And God's will done on earth. 
As now in heaven ! 



THE BAREFOOT BOY 

Blessings on thee, little man, 
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! 
With thy turned-up pantaloons. 
And thy merry whistled tunes; 
With thy red lip, redder still 
Kissed by strawberries on the hill; 
With the sunshine on thy face. 
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; 
From my heart I give thee joy, — 
I was once a barefoot boy ! 
Prince thou art, — the grown-up man 
Only is republican. 
Let the million-dollared ride ! 
Barefoot, trudging at his side. 
Thou hast more than he can buy 
In the reach of ear and eye, — 
Outward sunshine, inward joy: 
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! 

Oh for boyhood's painless play. 
Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 
Health that mocks the doctor's rules, 
Knowledge never learned of schools, 
Of the wild bee's morning chase. 
Of the wild flower's time and place, 
Flight of fowl and habitude 
Of the tenants of the wood; 
How the tortoise bears his shell. 
How the woodchuck digs his cell. 
And the ground-mole sinks his well; 
How the robin feeds her young. 
How the oriole's nest is hung; 
Where the whitest lilies blow. 
Where the freshest berries grow. 
Where the ground-nut trails its vine. 
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine; 
Of the black wasp's cunning way, 
Mason of his walls of clay. 
And the architectural plans 
Of gray hornet artisans ! 
For, eschewing books and tasks, 
Nature answers all he asks; 
Hand in hand with her he walks. 
Face to face with her he talks. 
Part and parcel of her joy, — 
Blessings on the barefoot boy ! 

Oh for boyhood's time of June, 
Crowding years in one brief moon. 
When all things I heard or saw. 
Me, their master, waited for. 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



131 



1 was rich in flowers and trees, 
Humming-birds and honey-bees; 
For mj' sport the squirrel played, 
Plied the snouted mole his spade; 
For my taste the blackberry cone 
Purpled over hedge and stone ; 
Laughed the brook for my delight 
Through the day and through the night, 
Whispering at the garden wall, 
Talked with me from fall to fall; 
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, . 
Mine the walnut slopes beyond, 
Mine, on bending orchard trees, 
Apples of Hesperides ! 
Still as my horizon grew. 
Larger grew my riches too; 
All the world I saw or knew 
Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 
Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! 

Oh for festal dainties spread. 
Like my bowl of milk and bread; 
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, 
On the door-stone, gray and rude ! 
O'er me, like a regal tent. 
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, 
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold. 
Looped in many a wind-swung fold; 
While for music came the play 
Of the pied frogs' orchestra; 
And, to light the noisy choir. 
Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 
I was monarch: pomp and joy 
Waited on the barefoot boy ! 

Cheerily, then, my little man, 
Live and laugh, as boyhood can ! 
Though the flinty slopes be hard, 
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 
Every morn shall lead thee through 
Fresh baptisms of the dew; 
Every evening from thy feet 
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: 
All too soon these feet must hide 
In the prison cells of pride. 
Lose the freedom of the sod. 
Like a colt's for work be shod, 
Made to tread the mills of toil. 
Up and down in ceaseless moil: 
Happy if their track be found 
Never on forbidden ground; 
Happy if they sink not in 
Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy, 
Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! 



MAUD MULLER 

Maud Muller on a summer's day 
Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 

But when she glanced to the far-off town. 
White from its hill-slope looking down. 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing filled her breast, — ■ 

A wish that she hardly dared to own. 
For something better than she had known. 

The Judge rode slowly down the lane. 
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 

He drew his bridle in the shade 

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, 

And asked a draught from the spring that 

flowed 
Through the meadow across the road. 

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled 

up, 
And filled for him her small tin cup, 

And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 

"Thanks!" said the Judge; "a sweeter 

draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaffed." 

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees. 
Of the singing birds and the humming 
bees; 

Then talked of the haying, and wondered 

whether 
The cloud in the west would bring foul 

weather. 

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown 
And her graceful ankles bare and brown; 

And listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



At last, like one who for delay- 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud Muller looked and sighed: " Ah me ! 
That I the Judge's bride might be ! 

" He would dress me up in silks so fine, 
And praise and toast me at his wine. 

"My father should wear a broadcloth coat; 
My brother should sail a painted boat. 

" I 'd dress my mother so grand and gay. 
And the baby should have a new toy each 
day. 

" And I 'd feed the hungry and clothe the 

poor. 
And all should bless me who left our door." 

The Judge looked back as he climbed the 

hill, 
And saw Maud Muller standing still. 

" A form more fair, a face more sweet, 
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 

" And her modest answer and graceful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

" Would she were mine, and I to-day, 
Like her, a harvester of hay; 

" No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs. 
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 

"But low of cattle and song of birds, 
And health and quiet and loving words." 

But he thought of his sisters, proud and 

cold, 
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, 
When he hummed in court an old love- 
tune; 

And the young girl mused beside the well 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 

He wedded a wife of richest dower, 
Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 



Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright 

glow. 
He watched a picture come and go; 

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red. 
He longed for the wayside well instead ; 

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms 
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. 

And the proud man sighed, with a secret 

pain, 
" Ah, that I were free again ! 

" Free as when I rode that day. 

Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." 

She wedded a man unlearned and poor, 
And many children played round her door 

But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain. 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot. 

And she heard the little spring brook fall 
Ovter the roadside, through the wall, 

In the shade of the apple-tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein; 

And, gazing down with timid grace, 
She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately halls; 

The weary wheel to a spinet turned. 
The tallow candle an astral burned, 

And for him who sat by the chimney lug. 
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 

A manly form at her side she saw. 
And joy was duty and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life again, \ 
Saying only, " It might have been." ^ 

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, 

For rich repiuer and household drudge ! 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



133 



God pity them both ! and pity us all, 
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. 

I'or of all sad words of tongue or pen, 
The saddest are these: "It might have 
been ! " 

A.h, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
Roll the stone from its grave away I 

SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE 

Of all the rides since the birth of time. 
Told in story or sung in rhyme, — 
On Apuleius's Golden Ass, 
Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass, 
Witch astride of a human b^jCk, 
Islam's prophet on Al-Bordk, — 
The strangest ride that ever was sped 
Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead ! 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a 
cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

Body of turkey, head of owl. 
Wings adroop like a rained-on fowl, 
Feathered and ruffled in every part. 
Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. 
Scores of women, old and young, 
Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, 
Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane. 
Shouting and singing the shrill refrain: 
" Here 's Find Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 
Torr'd an' futberr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead ! " 

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, 
Girls in bloom of cheek and lips, 
Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase 
Bacchus round some antique vase. 
Brief of skirt, with ankles bare. 
Loose of kerchief and loose of hair. 
With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' 

twang, 
Over and over the Maenads sang: 

" Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead! " 

Small pity for him ! — He sailed away 
From a leaking ship iu Chaleur Bay, — 



Sailed away from a sinking wreck. 
With his own town's-people on her deck ! 
" Lay by ! lay by ! " they called to him. 
Back he answered, " Sink or swim ! 
Brag of your catch of fish again ! " 
And off he sailed through the fog and rain ! 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in sv 
cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur 
That wreck shall lie forevermore. 
Mother and sister, wife and maid. 
Looked from the rocks of Marblehead 
Over the moaning and rainy sea, — 
Looked for the coming that might not 

be! 
What did the winds and the sea-birds say 
Of the cruel captain who sailed away ? — 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a 
cart 
By the women of Marblehead. 

Through the street, on either side, 
Up flew windows, doors swung wide; 
Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, 
Treble lent the fish-horn's bray. 
Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound, 
Hulks of old sailors run aground. 
Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane. 
And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain: 
" Here 's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead ! " 

Sweetly along the Salem road 
Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. 
Little the wicked skipper knew 
Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. 
Riding there in his sorry trim. 
Like an Indian idol glum and grim. 
Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear 
Of voices shouting, far and near: 

" Here 's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead ! " 

" Hear me, neighbors ! " at last he cried,— 
" What to me is this noisy ride ? 
What is the shame that clothes the skin 
To the nameless horror that lives within ? 
Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, 
And hear a cry from a reeling deck ! 



134 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Hate me and curse me, — I only dread 
The hand of God and the face of the dead ! " 
Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard 

heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a 
cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea 
Said, " God has touched him ! why should 

we!" 
Said an old wife mourning her only son, 
" Cut the rogue's tether and let him run ! " 
So with soft relentings and rude excuse, 
Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, 
And gave him a cloak to hide him in, 
Aiid left him alone with his shame and 
sin. 
Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried iu a 
cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 



THE SWAN SONG OF PARSON 
AVERY 

When the reaper's task was ended, and the 

summer wearing late, 
Parson Avery sailed from Newbury, with 

his wife and children eight. 
Dropping down the river-harbor in the 

shallop " Watch and Wait." 

Pleasantly lay the clearings in the mellow 

summer-morn. 
With the newly planted orchards dropping 

their fruits first born. 
And the home-roofs like brown islands amid 

a sea of corn. 

Broad meadows reached out seaward the 

tided creeks between. 
And hills rolled wave-like inland, with oaks 

and walnuts green : 
A fairer home, a goodlier land, his eyes had 

never seen. 

Yet away sailed Parson Avery, away where 

duty led, 
And the voice of God seemed calling, to 

break the living bread , 
To the souls of fishers starving on the rocks 

of Marblehead. 



All day they sailed: at nightfall the plea- 
sant land-breeze died. 

The blackening sky, at midnight, its starry 
lights denied. 

And far and low the thunder of tempest 
prophesied ! 

Blotted out were all the coast-lines, gone 
were rock, and wood, and sand; 

Grimly anxious stood the skipper with the 
rudder in his hand. 

And questioned of the darkness what was 
sea and what was land. 

And the preacher heard his dear ones, 
nestled round him, weeping sore: 

" Never heed, my little children ! Christ is 
walking on before 

To the pleasant land of heaven, where the 
sea sh^iJl be no more." 

All at once the great cloud parted, like a 
curtain drawn aside. 

To let down the torch of lightning on the 
terror far and wide; 

And the thunder and the whirlwind to- 
gether smote the tide. 

There was wailing in the shallop, woman's 

wail and man's despair, 
A crash of breaking timbers on the rocks so 

sharp and bare. 
And, through it all, the murmur of Father 

Avery's prayer. 

From his struggle in the darkness with the 

wild waves and the blast. 
On a rock, where every billow broke above 

him as it passed, 
Alone, of all his household, the man of God 

was cast. 

There a comrade heard him praying, in the 

pause of wave and wind: 
" All my own have gone before me, and I 

linger just behind; 
Not for life I ask, but only for the rest 

Thy ransomed find ! 

" In this night of death I challenge the prom- 
ise of Thy word ! — 

Let me see the great salvation of which 
mine ears have heard ! — 

Let me pass from hence forgiven, through 
the grace of Christ, our Lord ! 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



^2S 



" In the baptism of these waters wash 
white my every sin, 

And let me follow up to Thee my house- 
hold and my kin ! 

Open the sea-gate of Thy heaven, and let 
me enter in ! " 

When the Christian sings his death-song, 
all the listening heavens draw near, 

And the angels, leaning over the walls of 
crystal, hear 

How the notes so faint and broken swell to 
music in God's ear. 

The ear of God was open to His servant's 

last request; 
As the strong wave swept him downward 

the sweet hymn upward pressed, 
And the soul of Father Avery went, singing, 

to its rest. 

There was wailing on the mainland, from 

the rocks of Marblehead; 
In the stricken church of Newbury the 

notes of prayer were read; 
And long, by board and hearthstone, the 

living mourned the dead. 

And still the fishers outbound, or scuddi;ig 

from the squall, 
With grave and reverent faces, the ancient 

tale recall. 
When they see the white waves breaking 

on the Rock of Avery's Fall ! 



THE VANISHERS 

Svs^EETEST of all childlike dreams 
In the simple Indian lore 

Still to me the legend seems 
Of the shapes who flit before. 

Flitting, passing, seen and gone, 
Never reached nor found at rest. 

Baffling search, but beckoning on 
To the Sunset of the Blest. 

From the clefts of mountain rocks, 
Through the dark of lowland firs, 

Flash the eyes and flow the locks 
Of the mystic Vanishers ! 

And the fisher in his skifB, 
And the hunter on the moss. 



Hear their call from cape and cliff, 
See their hands the birch-leaves toss. 

Wistful, longing, through the green 
Twilight of the clustered pines, 

In their faces rarely seen 

Beauty more than mortal shines. 

Fringed with gold their mantles flow 
On the slopes of westering knolls ; 

In the wind they whisper low 
Of the Sunset Land of Souls. 

Doubt who may, O friend of mine ! 

Thou and I have seen them too; 
On before with beck and sign 

Still they glide, and we pursue. 

More than clouds of purple trail 

In the gold of setting day; 
More than gleams of wing or sail 

Beckon from the sea-mist gray. 

Glimpses of immortal youth. 

Gleams and glories seen and flown, 

Far-heard voices sweet with truth. 
Airs from viewless Eden blown; 

Beauty that eludes our grasp. 

Sweetness that transcends our taste, 

Loving hands we may not clasp, 
Shining feet that mock our haste; 

Gentle eyes we closed below. 
Tender voices heard once more, 

Smile and call us, as they go 
On and onward, still before. 

Guided thus, O friend of mine ! 

Let us walk our little way. 
Knowing by each beckoning sign 

That we are not quite astray. 

Chase we still, with baffled feet, 
Smiling eye and waving hand, 

Sought and seeker soon shall meet, 
Lost and found, in Sunset Land ! 



THE ETERNAL GOODNESS 

O FRIENDS ! with whom my feet have trod 

The quiet aisles of prayer, 
Glad witness to your zeal for God 
And love of man I bear. 



136 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



I trace your lines of argument; 

Your logic linked and strong 
I weigh as one who dreads dissent, 

And fears a doubt as wrong. 

But still my human hands are weak 

To hold your iron creeds: 
Against the words ye bid me speak 

My heart within me pleads. 

Who fathoms the Eternal Thought? 

Who talks of scheme and plan ? 
The Lord is God ! He needeth not 

The poor device of man. 

I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground 
Ye tread with boldness shod; 

I dare not fix with mete and bound 
The love and power of God. 

Ye praise His justice; even such 

His pitying love I deem: 
Ye seek a king; I fain would touch 

The robe that hath no seam. 

Ye see the curse which overbroods 

A world of pain and loss; 
I hear our Lord's beatitudes 

And prayer upon the cross. 

More than your schoolmen teach, within 

Myself, alas ! I know: 
Too dark ye cannot jjaint the sin. 

Too small the merit show. 

I bow my forehead to the dust, 

I veil miue eyes for shame. 
And urge, in trembling self-distrust, 

A prayer without a claim. 

I see the wrong that round me lies, 

I feel the guilt within; 
I hear, with groan and travail-cries, 

The world confess its sin. 

Yet, in the maddening maze of things. 
And tossed by storm and flood, 

To one fixed trust my spirit clings; 
I know that God is good ! 

Not mine to look where cherubim 
And seraphs may not see. 



But nothing can be good in Him 
Which evil is in me. 

The wrong that pains my soul below 

I dare not throne above, 
I know not of His hate, — I know 

His goodness and His love. 

I dimly guess from blessings known 

Of greater out of sight. 
And, with the chastened Psalmist, own 

His judgments too are right. 

I long for household voices gone, 

For vanished smiles I long. 
But God hath led my dear ones on. 

And He can do no wrong. 

I know not what the future hath 

Of marvel or surprise, 
Assured alone that life and death 

His mercy underlies. 

And if my heart and flesh are weak 

To bear an untried pain, 
The bruised reed He will not break, 

But strengthen and sustain. 

I\[o offering of my own I have, 
Nor works my faith to prove ; 

I can but give the gifts He gave, 
And plead His love for love. 

And so beside the Silent Sea 

I wait the muffled oar ; 
No harm from Him can come to me 

On ocean or on shore. 

I know not where His islands lift 
Their fronded palms in air; 

I only know I cannot drift 
Beyond His love and care. 

O brothers ! if my faith is vain. 

If hopes like these betray. 
Pray for me that my feet may gain 

The sure and safer way. 

And Thou, O Lord ! by whom are seen 

Thy creatures as they be, 
Forgive me if too close I lean 

My human heart on Thee t 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



137 



FROM "SNOW-BOUND" 

THE WORLD TRANSFORMED 

Unw ARMED by any sunset light 
The gray day darkened into night, 
A night made hoary with the swarm 
And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, 
As zigzag, wavering to and fro, 
Crossed and recrossed the winged snow: 
And ejce the early bedtime came 
The white drift piled the window-frame. 
And through the glass the clothes-line posts 
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. 

So all night long the storm roared on: 

The morning broke without a sun; 

In tiny spherule traced with lines 

Of Nature's geometric signs, 

In starry flake, and pellicle, 

All day the hoary meteor fell; 

And, when the second morning shone, 

We looked upon a World unknown. 

On nothing we could call our own. 

Around the glistening wonder bent 

The blue walls of the firmament, 

No cloud above, no earth below, — 

A universe of sky and snow ! 

The old familiar sights of ours 

Took marvellous shapes; strange domes 

and towers 
Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood, 
Or garden- wall, or belt of wood; 
A smooth white mound the brush-pile 

showed, 
A fenceless drift what once was road; 
The bridle-post an old man sat 
With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat ; 
The well-curb had a Chinese roof; 
And even the long sweep, high aloof, 
In its slant splendor, seemed to tell 
Of Pisa's leaning miracle. 

FIRELIGHT 

Shut in from all the world without, 
We sat the clean-winged hearth about, 
Content to let the north-wind roar 
In baffled rage at pane and door. 
While the red logs before us beat 
The frost-line back with tropic heat ; 
And ever, when a louder blast 
Shook beam and rafter as it passed. 
The merrier up its roaring draught 
The great throat of the chimney laughed; 



The house-dog on his paws outspread 
Laid to the fire his drowsy head, 
The cat's dark silhouette on the wall 
A couchant tiger's seemed to fall; 
And, for the winter fireside meet. 
Between the andirons' straddling feet, 
The mug of cider simmered slow, 
The apples sputtered in a row, 
And, close at hand, the basket stood 
With nuts from brown October's wood. 

What matter how the night behaved ? 

What matter how the north- wind raved ? 

Blow high, blow low, not all its snow 

Could quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow. 

O Time and Change ! — with hair as gray 

As was my sire's that winter day, 

How strange it seems, with so much gone 

Of life and love, to still live on ! 

Ah, brother ! only I and thou 

Are left of all that circle now, — 

The dear home faces whereupon 

That fitful firelight paled and shone. 

Henceforward, listen as we will, 

The voices of that hearth are still; 

Look where we may, the wide earth o'er. 

Those lighted faces smile no more. 

We tread the paths their feet have worn. 

We sit beneath their orchard-trees. 

We hear, like them, the hum of bees 
And rustle of the bladed corn; 
We turn the pages that they read. 

Their written words we linger o'er, 
But in the sun they cast no shade, 
No voice is heard, no sign is made, 

No step is on the conscious floor ! 
Yet Love will dream, and Faith will trust, 
(Since He who knows our need is just,) 
That somehow, somewhere, meet we must. 
Alas for him who never sees 
The stars shine through his cypress-trees ! 
Who, hopeless, lays his dead away. 
Nor looks to see the breaking day 
Across the mournful marbles play ! 
Who hath not learned, in hours of faith, 

The truth to flesh and sense unknown^ 
That Life is ever lord of Death, 

And Love can never lose its own ! 



MOTHER 

Our mother, while she turned her wheel 
Or run the new-knit stocking-heel, 
Told how the Indian hordes came down 
At midnight on Cocheco town, 



138 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



And how her own great-uncle bore 
His cruel scalp-mark to fourscore,, 
Recalling, in lier fitting phrase, 
So rich and picturesque and free, 
(The common unrhymed poetry 
Of simple life and country ways,) 
The story of her early days, — 
She made us welcome to her home; 
Old hearths grew wide to give us room; 
We stole with her a frightened look 
At the gray wizard's conjuring-book, 
The fame whereof went far and wide 
Through all the simple country-side ; 
We heard the hawks at twilight play, 
The boat-horn on Piscataqua, 
The loon's weird laughter far away; 
We fished her little trout-brook, knew 
What flowers in wood and meadow grew. 
What sunny hillsides autumn-brown 
She climbed to shake the ripe nuts down. 
Saw where in sheltered cove and bay 
The ducks' black squadron anchored lay, 
And heard the wild geese calling loud 
Beneath the gray November cloud. 

SISTER 

As one who held herself a part 
Of all she saw, and let her heart 

Against the household bosom lean, 
Upon the motley-braided mat 
Our youngest and our dearest sat, 
Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes, 

Now bathed in the unfading green 
And holy peace of Paradise. 
Oh, looking from some heavenly hill. 

Or from the shade of saintly palms. 

Or silver reach of river calms, 
Do those large eyes behold me still ? 
With me one little year ago: — 
The chill weight of the winter snow 

For months upon her grave has lain; 
And now, when summer south-winds blow 

And brier and harebell bloom again, 
I tread the pleasant paths we trod, 
I see the violet-sprinkled sod 
Whereon she leaned, too frail and weak 
The hillside flowers she loved to seek, 
Yet following me where'er I went 
With dark eyes full of love's content. 
The birds are glad; the brier-rose fills 
The air with sweetness ; all the hills 
Stretch green tro June's unclouded sky; 
But still I wait with ear and eye 
For something gone which should be nigh. 



A loss in all f amiiliar things, 

In flower that blooms, and bird that sings. 

And yet, dear heart ! remembering thee, 

Am I not richer than of old ? 
Safe in thy immortality, 

What change can reach the wealth I 
hold ? 

What chance can mar the pearl and gold 
Thy love hath left in trust with me ? 
And while in life's late afternoon, 

Where cool and long the shadows grow, 
I walk to meet the night that soon 

Shall shape and shadow overflow, 
I cannot feel that thou art far. 
Since near at need the angels are; 
And when the sunset gates unbar. 

Shall I not see thee waiting stand, 
And, white against the evening star. 

The welcome of thy beckoning hand ? 

PROPHETESS 

Another guest that winter night 

Flashed back from lustrous eyes the light. 

Unmarked by time, and yet not young, 

The honeyed music of her tongue 

And words of meekness scarcely told 

A nature passionate and bold, 

Strong, self-concentred, spurning guide. 

Its milder features dwarfed beside 

Her unbent will's majestic pride. 

She sat among us, at the best, 

A not unfeared, half-welcome guest, 

Rebuking with her cultured phrase 

Our homeliness of words and ways. 

A certain pard-like, treacherous grace 

Swayed the lithe limbs and dropped the 

lash, 
Lent the white teeth their dazzling flash; 
And under low brows, black with night. 
Rayed out at times a dangerous light; 
The sharp heat-lightnings of her face 
Presaging ill to him whom Fate 
Condemned to share her love or hate. 
A woman tropical, intense 
In thought and act, in soul and sense, 
She blended in a like degree 
The vixen and the devotee. 
Revealing with each freak or feint 
The temper of Petruchio's Kate, 
The raptures of Siena's saint. 
Her tapering hand and rounded wrist 
Had facile power to form a fist; 
The warm, dark languish of her eyes 
Was never safe from wrath's surprise 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



139 



Brows saintly calm and lips devout 
Knew every change of scowl and pout; 
And the sweet voice had notes more high 
And shrill for social battle-cry. 

Since then what old cathedral town 
Has missed her pilgrim staff and gown, 
What convent-gate has held its lock 
Against the challenge of her knock ! 
Through Smyrna's plague-hushed thorough- 
fares, 
Up sea-set Malta's rocky stairs. 
Gray olive slopes of hills that hem 
Thy tombs and shrines, Jerusalem, 
Or startling on her desert throne 
The crazy Queen of Lebanon 
With claims fantastic as her own, 
Her tireless feet have held their way; 
And still, unrestful, bowed, and gray, 
She "watches under Eastern skies, 

With hope each day renewed and fresh. 
The Lord's quick coming in the flesh. 
Whereof she dreams and prophesies ! 



IN SCHOOL-DAYS 

Still sits the school-house by the road, 

A ragged begga'r sunning; 
Around it still the sumachs grow. 

And blackberry vines are running. 

Within, the master's desk is seen. 
Deep scarred by raps official; 

The warping floor, the battered seats, 
The jack-knife's carved initial ; 

The charcoal frescos on its wall; 

Its door's worn sill, betraying 
The feet that, creeping slow to school, 

Went storming out to playing ! 

Long years ago a winter sun 

Shone over it at setting; 
Lit up its western window-panes. 

And low eaves' icy fretting. 

It touched the tangled golden curls, 
And brown eyes full of grieving, 

Of one who still her steps delayed 
When all the school were leaving. 

For near her stood the little boy 
Her childish favor singled: 



His cap pulled low upon a face 

Where pride and shame were mingled. 

Pushing with restless feet the snow 
To right and left, he lingered; — 

As restlessly her tiny hands 

The blue-checked apron fingered. 

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt 
The soft hand's light caressing. 

And heard the tremble of her voice, 
As if a fault confessing. 

" I 'm sorry that I spelt the word : 

I hate to go above you. 
Because," — the brown eyes lower fell, — 

" Because, you see, I love you ! " 

Still memory to a gray-haired man 
That sweet child-face is showing. 

Dear girl ! the grasses on her grave 
Have forty years been growing ! 

He lives to learn, in life's hard school, 
How few who pass above him 

Lament their triumph and his loss. 
Like her, — because they love him. 

1870. 

THE TWO ANGELS 

God called the nearest angels who dwell 

with Him above: 
The tenderest one was Pity, the dearest one 

was Love. 

" Arise," He said, " my angels ! a wail of 

woe and sin 
Steals through the gates of heaven, and 

saddens all within. 

"My harps take up the mournful strain 
that from a lost world swells. 

The smoke of torment clouds the light and 
blights the asphodels. 

" Fly downward to that under world, and 

on its souls of pain 
Let Love drop smiles like sunshine, and 

Pity tears like rain ! " 

Two faces bowed before the Throne, veiled 

in their golden hair; 
Four white wings lessened swiftly down the 

dark abyss of air. 



140 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



The way was strange, the flight was long; 

at last the angels came 
Where swung the lost and nether world, 

red-wrapped in rayless flame. 

There Pity, "huddering, wept; but Love, 
with faith too strong for fear. 

Took heart from God's almightiness and 
smiled a smile of cheer. 

And lo ! that tear of Pity quenched the 

flame whereon it fell, 
And, with the sunshine of that smile, hope 

entered into hell ! 

Two unveiled faces full of joy looked up- 
ward to the Throne, 

Four white wings folded at the feet of Him 
who sat thereon ! 

And deeper than the sound of seas, more 

soft than falling flake. 
Amidst the hush of wing and song the 

Voice Eternal spake: 

** Welcome, my angels ! ye have brought a 

holier joy to heaven; 
Henceforth its sweetest song shall be the 

song of sin forgiven ! " 



CENTENNIAL HYMN 

Our fathers' God ! from out whose hand 
The centuries fall like grains of sand, 
We meet to-day, united, free, 
And loyal to our land and Thee, 
To thank Thee for the era done, 
And trust Thee for the opening one. 

Here, where of old, by Thy design. 
The fathers spake that word of Thine 
Whose echo is the glad refrain 
Of rended bolt and falling chain. 
To grace our festal time, from all 
The zones of earth our guests we call. 

Be with us while the New World greets 
The Old World thronging all its streets. 
Unveiling all the triumphs won 
By art or toil beneath the sun; 
And unto common good ordain 
This rivalship of hand and brain. 



Thou, who hast here in concord furled 
The war flags of a gathered world. 
Beneath our Western skies fulfil 
The Orient's mission of good-will, 
And, freighted with love's Golden Fleece, 
Send back its Argonauts of peace. 

For art and labor met in truce. 
For beauty made the bride of use. 
We thank Thee; but, withal, we crave 
The austere virtues strong to save. 
The honor proof to place or gold, 
The manhoood never bought nor sold ! 

Oh make Thou us, through centuries long, 
In peace secure, in justice strong; 
Around our gift of freedom draw 
The safeguards of thy righteous law: 
And, cast in some diviner mould, 
Let the new cycle shame the old ! 
1876. 



IN THE "OLD SOUTH" 

She came and stood in the Old South 
Church 

A wonder and a sign, 
With a look the old-time sibyls wore, 

Half-crazed and half-divine. 

Save the mournful sackcloth about her 
wound. 
Unclothed as the primal mother, 
With limbs that trembled and eyes that 
blazed 
With a fire she dare not smother. 

Loose on her shoulders fell her hair, 

With sprinkled ashes gray; 
She stood in the broad aisle strange and 
weird 

As a soul at the judgment day. 

And the minister paused in his sermon's 
midst. 

And the people held their breath. 
For these were the words the maiden spoke 

Through lips as the lips of death: 

" Thus saith the Lord, with equal feet 
All men my courts shall tread. 

And priest and ruler no more shall eat 
My people up like bread ! 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



141 



" Repent ! repent ! ere the Lord shall speak 
In thunder and breaking seals ! 

Let all souls worship Him in the way 
His light within reveals." 

She shook the dust from her naked feet, 
And her sackcloth closer drew, 

And into the porch of the awe-hushed 
church 
She passed like a ghost from view. 

They whipped her away at the tail o' the 
cart 
Through half the streets of the town, 
But the words she uttered that day nor 
fire 
Could burn nor water drown. 

And now the aisles of the ancient church 

By equal feet are trod. 
And the bell that swings in its belfry rings 

Freedom to worship God ! 

And now whenever a wrong is done 

It thrills the conscious walls; 
The stone from the basement cries aloud 

And the beam from the timber calls. 

There are steeple-houses on every hand, 
And pulpits that bless and ban, 

And the Lord will not grudge the single 
church 
That is set apart for man. 

For in two commnndments are all the law 
And the prophets under the sun, 

And the first is last and the last is first, 
And the twain are verily one. 

So long as Boston shall Boston be, 
And her bay-tides rise and fall. 

Shall freedom stand in the Old South 
Church 
And plead for the rights of all ! 



MULFORD 

Unnoted as the setting of a star 

He passed; and sect and party scarcely 

knew 
When from their midst a sage and seer 
withdrew 
To fitter audience, where the great dead 
are 



In God's republic of the heart and raind. 
Leaving no purer, nobler soul behind. 



AN AUTOGRAPH 

I WRITE my name as one. 
On sands by waves o'errun 
Or winter's frosted pane, 
Traces a record vaiii. 

Oblivion's blankness claims 
Wiser and better names, 
And well my own may pass 
As from the strand or glass. 

Wash on, O waves of time ! 
Melt, noons, the frosty rime ! 
Welcome the shadow vast, 
The silence that shall last ! 

When I and all who know 
And love me vanish so, 
What harm to them or me 
Will the lost memory be ? 

If any words of mine. 
Through right of life divine. 
Remain, what matters it 
Whose hand the message writ ? 

Why should the " crowner's quest" 
Sit on my worst or best ? 
Why should the showman claim 
The poor ghost of my name ? 

Yet, as when dies a sound 
Its spectre lingers round. 
Haply my spent life will 
Leave some faint echo still. 

A whisper giving breath 
Of praise or blame to death, 
Soothing or saddening such 
As loved the living much. 

Therefore with yearnings vain 
And fond I still would fain 
A kindly judgment seek, 
A tender thought bespeak. 

And, while my words are read,. 
Let this at least be said: 
" Whate'er his life's defeatures, 
He loved his fellow-creatures. 



142 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



" If, of the Law's stone table, 
To hold he scarce was able 
The first great precept fast, 
He kept for man the last. 

" Through mortal lapse and dulness 
What lacks the Eternal Fulness, 
If still our weakness can 
Love Him in loving man ? 

" Age brought him no despairing 
Of the world's future faring; 
In human nature still 
He found more good than ill. 



" To all who dumbly suffered. 
His tongue and pen he offered; 
His life was not his own, 
Nor lived for self alone. 

" Hater of din and riot 
He lived in days unquiet; 
And, lover of all beauty, 
Trod the hard ways of duty. 

" He meant no wrong to any, 
He sought the good of many, 
Yet knew both sin and folly, — 
May God forgive him wholly ! '' 



IBJlliam ^aVji.^ ^allagljcir 



THE CARDINAL BIRD 

A DAY and then a week passed by: 

The redbird hanging from the sill 
Sang not; and all were wondering why 

It was so still — 
When one bright morning, loud and clear, 
Its whistle smote my drowsy ear, 
Ten times repeated, till the sound 
Filled every echoing niche around ; 
And all things earliest loved by me, — 
The bird, the brook, the flower, the tree, — 
Came back again, as thus I heard 

The cardinal bird. 

Where maple orchards towered aloft, 

And spicewood bushes spread below. 
Where skies were blue, and winds were 
soft, 

I could but go — 
For, opening through a wildering haze. 
Appeared my restless childhood's days; 
And truant feet and loitering mood 
Soon found me in the same old wood 
(Illusion's hour but seldom brings 
So much the very form of things) 
Where first I sought, and saw, and heard 

The cardinal bird. 



Then 



came green meadows, broad 
bright, 
Where dandelions, with wealth untold, 
Grleamed on the young and eager sight 
Like stars of gold; 



and 



And on the very meadow's edge, 
Beneath the ragged blackberry hedge, 
Mid mosses golden, gray and green, 
The fresh young buttercups were seen, 
And small spring-beauties, sent to be 
The heralds of anemone: 
All just as when I earliest heard 
The cardinal bird. 

Upon the gray old forest's rim 

I snuffed the crab-tree's sweet perfume; 
And farther, where the light was dim, 

I saw the bloom 
Of May-apples, beneath Ijie tent 
Of umbrel leaves above them bent; 
Where oft was shifting light and shade 
The blue-eyed ivy wildly strayed; 
And Solomon's-seal, in graceful play, 
Swung where the straggling sunlight lay: 
The same as when I earliest heard 

The cardinal bird. 

And on the slope, above the rill 

That wound among the sugar-trees, 
I heard them at their labors still, 

The murmuring bees: 
Bold foragers ! that come and go 
Without permit from friend or foe; 
In the tall tulip-trees o'erhead 
On pollen greedily they fed, 
And from low purple phlox, that grew 
About my feet, sipped honey-dew: — 
How like the scenes when first I heard 

The cardinal bird ! 



J 



WILLIAM DAVIS GALLAGHER 



143 



How like ! — and yet . . . The spell 
grows weak: — 
Ah, but I miss the sunny brow — 
The sparkling eye — the ruddy cheek ! 

Where, where are now 
The three who then beside me stood 
Like sunbeams in the dusky wood ? 
Alas, I am alone ! Since then, 
They 've trod the weary ways of men: 
One on the eve of manhood died; 
Two in its flush of power and pride. 
Their graves are green, where first we heard 

The cardinal bird. 

The redbird, from the window hung. 
Not long my fancies thus beguiled: 
Again in maple-groves it sung 

Its wood-notes wild; 
For, rousing with a tearful eye, 
I gave it to the trees and sky ! 
I missed so much those brothers three, 
Who walked youth's flowery ways with 

me, 
I could not, dared not but believe 
It too had brothers, that would grieve 
Till in old haunts again 't was heard, — 

The cardinal bird. 



AUTUMN IN THE WEST 

The autumn time is with us. Its approach 
Was heralded, not many days ago. 
By hazy skies that veiled the brazen sun, 
And sea-like murmurs from the rustling 

corn. 
And low-voiced brooks that wandered 

drowsily 
By pendent clusters of empurpling grapes 
Swinging upon the vine. And now, 't is 

here ! 
And what a change hath passed upon the 

face 
Of nature, where the waving forest spreads, 
Then robed in deepest green ! All through 

the night 
The subtle frost has plied its magic art; 
And in the day the golden sun hath 

wrought 
True wonders; and the winds of morn and 

even 
'Have touched with magic breath the 

changing leaves. 
And now, as wanders the dilating eye 
Athwart the varied landscape, circling far, 



What gorgeousness, what blazonry, what 

pomp 
Of colors bursts upon the ravished sight ! 
Here, where the poplar rears its yellow 

crest, 
A golden glory; yonder, where the oak 
Stands monarch of the forest, and the 

ash 
Is girt with flame-like parasite, and broad 
The dogwood spreads beneath, and, fringing 

all. 
The sumac blushes to the ground, a flood 
Of deepest crimson ; and afar, where looms 
The gnarled gum, a cloud of bloodiest 

red. 

Out in the woods of autumn ! I have 

cast 
Aside the shackles of the town, that vex 
The fetterless soul, and come to hide my- 
self, 
Miami ! in thy venerable shades. 
Here where seclusion looks out on a 

scene 
Of matchless beauty, I will pause awhile, 
And on this bank with varied mosses 

crowned 
Gently recline. Beneath me, silver-bright. 
Glide the calm waters, with a plaintive 

moan 
For summer's parting glories. High o'er- 

head, 
Seeking the sedgy brinks of still lagoons 
That bask in southern suns the winter 

through, 
Sails tireless the unerring waterfowl, 
Screaming among the cloud-racks. Oft 

from where, 
In bushy covert hid, the partridge stands, 
Bursts suddenly the whistle clear and 

loud. 
Far-echoing through the dim wood's fretted 

aisles. 
Deep murmurs from the trees, bending 

with brown 
And ripened mast, are interrupted oft 
By sounds of dropping nuts ; and warily 
The turkey from the thicket comes, and 

swift 
As flies an arrow darts the pheasant down, 
To batten on the autumn; and the air, 
At times, is darkened by a sudden rush 
Of myriad wings, as the wild pigeon 

leads 
His squadrons to the banquet. Far away, 



144 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Where tranquil groves on sunny slopes 

supply 
Their liberal store of fruits, the merry laugh 
Of children, and the truant school-boy's 

shout, 
Ring on the air, as, from the hollows borne, 



Nuts load their creaking carts, and lush 

pawpaws 
Their motley baskets fill, with clustering 

grapes 
And golden-sphered persimmons spread o'er 

all. 



oBtigar %\\an ^ot 



TO HELEN 



Helen, thy beauty is to me 

Like those Nicsean barks of yore, 

That gently, o'er a perfumed sea. 
The weary, wayworn wanderer bore 
To his own native shore. 

On desperate seas long wont to roam, 
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, 

Thy Naiad airs, have brought me home 
To the glory that was Greece 
And the grandeur that was Rome. 

Lo ! in yon brilliant window-niche 
How statue-like I see thee stand. 

The agate lamp within thy hand ! 
Ah, Psyche, from the regions which 
Are Holy Land ! 



THE RAVEN 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I 

pondered, weak and weary. 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of 

forgotten lore, — 
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly 

there came a tapping. 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping 

at my chamber door. 
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, " tapping 

at my chamber door : 
Only this and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the 
bleak December, 

And each separate dying ember wrought 
its ghost upon the floor. 

Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I 
had sought to borrow 

From my books surcease of sorrow — sor- 
row for the lost Lenore, 



For the rare and radiant maiden whom the 
angels name Lenore: 
Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of 
each purple curtain 

Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic ter- 
rors never felt before; 

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, 
I stood repeating 

" 'T is some visitor entreating entrance at 
my chamber door. 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my 
chamber door: 
This it is and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating 
then no longer, 

" Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly your for- 
giveness I implore; 

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently 
you came rapping. 

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping 
at my chamber door, 

That I scarce was sure I heard you " — 
here I opened wide the door: — 
Darkness there and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I 

stood there wondering, fearing. 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals 

ever dared to dream before; 
But the silence was unbroken, and the 

stillness gave no token. 
And the only word there spoken was the 

whispered word, " Lenore ? " 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured 

back the word, " Lenore: " 
Merely this and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul 

within me burning, 
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat 

louder than before. 



J 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 



145 



" Surely," said I, " surely that is something 

at my window lattice ; 
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this 

mystery explore; 
Let my heart be still a moment 'and this 

mystery explore: 
'T is the wind and nothing more." 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with 

many a flirt and flutter, 
In there stepped a stately Raven of the 

saintly days of yore. 
Not the least obeisance made he; not a 

minute stopped or stayed he ; 
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched 

above my chamber door. 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above 

my chamber door: 
Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad 

fancy into smiling 
By the grave and stern decorum of the 

countenance it wore, — 
" Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, 

thou," I said, " art sure no craven. 
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering 

from the Nightly shore: 
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the 

Night's Plutonian shore ! " 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to 

hear discourse so plainly, 
Though its answer little meaning — little 

relevancy bore; 
For we cannot help agreeing that no living 

human being 
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird 

above his chamber door. 
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust 

above his chamber door, 
With such name as " Nevermore." 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid 

bust, spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in that one 

word he did outpour. 
Nothing further then he uttered, not a 

feather then he fluttered, 
Till I scarcely more than muttered, — 

" Other friends have flown before; 
On the morrow lie will leave me, as my 

Hopes have flown before." 
Then the bird said, " Nevermore." 



Startled at the stillness broken by reply so 

aptly spoken, 
" Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its 

only stock and store. 
Caught from some unhappy master whom 

unmerciful Disaster 
Followed fast and followed faster till his 

songs one burden bore: 
Till the dirges of his Hope that melan< 

choly burden bore 
Of ' Never — nevermore.' " 

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy 
into smiling. 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in 
front of bird and bust and door; 

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook 
myself to linking 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this omi- 
nous bird of yore. 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, 
and ominous bird of yore 
Meant in croaking " Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syl- 
lable expressing 

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned 
into my bosom's core; 

This and more I sat divining, with my head 
at ease reclining 

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp- 
light gloated o'er. 

But whose velvet violet lining with the 
lamp-light gloating o'er 
She shall press, ah, nevermore ! 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, per- 
fumed from an unseen censer 

Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled 
on the tufted floor. 

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent 
thee — by these angels he hath sent 
thee 

Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy 
memories of Lenore ! 

QuafP, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and 
forget this lost Lenore ! " 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

" Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! pro- 
phet still, if bird or devil ! 

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest 
tossed thee here ashore, 

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert 
land enchanted — 



146 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



On this home by Horror haunted — tell me 

truly, I implore: 
Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell 

me — tell me, I implore ! " 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

" Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil — pro- 
phet still, if bird or devil ! 

By that Heaven that bends above us, by 
that God we both adore. 

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within 
the distant Aidenn, 

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the 
angels name Lenore: 

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the 
angels name Lenore ! " 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or 

fiend !" I shrieked, upstarting: 
" Get thee back into the tempest and the 

Night's Plutonian shore ! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie 

thy soul hath spoken ! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken ! quit the 

bust above my door ! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take 

thy form from off my door ! " 
Quoth the Raveu, " Nevermore." 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, 
still is sitting 

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my 
chamber door; 

And his eyes have all the seeming of a de- 
mon's that is dreaming. 

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming 
throws his shadow on the floor: 

And my soul from out that shadow that 
lies floating on the floor 
Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 



THE SLEEPER 

At midnight, in the month of June, 
I stand beneath the mystic moon. 
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim. 
Exhales from out her golden rim, 
And, softly dripping, drop by drop, 
Upon the quiet mountain-top. 
Steals drowsily and musically 
Into the universal valley. 
The rosemary nods upon the grave; 
The lily lolls upon the wave; 



Wrapping the fog about its breast, 
The ruin moulders into rest; 
Looking like Lethe, see ! the lake 
A conscious slumber seems to take, 
And would not, for the world, awake. 
All beauty sleeps ! — and lo ! where lies 
Irene, with her destinies ! 

O lady bright ! can it be right, 

This window open to the night ? 

The wanton airs, from the tree-top, 

Laughingly through the lattice drop; 

The bodiless airs, a wizard rout. 

Flit tlirough thy chamber in and out, 

And wave the curtain canopy 

So fitfully, so fearfully. 

Above the closed and fringed lid 

'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies 

hid. 
That, o'er the floor and down the wall, 
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall. 

lady dear, hast thou no fear ? 

Why and what art thou dreaming here ? 
Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas, 
A wonder to these garden trees ! 
Strange is thy pallor: strange thy dress: 
Strange, above all, thy length of tress, 
And this all solemn silentness ! 

The lady sleeps. Oh, may her sleep, 
Which is enduring, so be deep ! 
Heaven have her in its sacred keep ! 
This chamber changed for one more holy. 
This bed for one more melancholy, 

1 pray to God that she may lie 
Forever with unopened eye. 

While the pale sheeted ghosts go by. 

My love, she sleeps. Oh, may her sleep. 

As it is lasting, so be deep ! 

Soft may the worms about her creep ! 

Far in the forest, dim and old, 

For her may some tall vault unfold: 

Some vault that oft hath flung its black 

And winged panels fluttering back, 

Triumphant, o'er the crested palls 

Of her grand family funerals: 

Some sepulchre, remote, alone. 

Against whose portal she hath thrown. 

In childhood, many an idle stone : 

Some tomb from out whose sounding 

door 
She ne'er shall force an echo more, 
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin. 
It was the dead who groaned within ! 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 



147 



LENORE 

Ah, broken is the golden bowl ! the spirit 

flown forever ! 
Let the bell toll ! — a saintly soul floats on 

the Stygian river; 
And, Guy De Vere, hast tliou no tear ? — 

weep now or nevermore ! 
See, on yon drear and rigid bier low lies 

thy love, Leuore ! 
Come, let the burial rite be read — the 

funeral song be sung: 
An anthem for the queeuliest dead that 

ever died so young, 
A dirge for her the doubly dead in that 

she died so young. 

" Wretches, ye loved her for her wealth 
and hated her for her pride. 

And when she fell in feeble health, ye 
blessed her — that she died ! 

How shall the ritual, then, be read ? the re- 
quiem how be sung 

By you — by yours, the evil eye, — by 
yours, the slanderous tongue 

That did to death the innocence that died, 
and died so young ? " 

Peccavimus ; but rave not thus ! and let a 

Sabbath song 
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may 

feel no wrong. 
The sweet Lenore hath gone before, with 

Hope that flew beside. 
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that 

should have been thy bride: 
For her, the fair and debonair, that now so 

lowly lies. 
The life upon her yellow hair but not within 

her eyes; 
The life still there, upon her hair — the 

death upon her eyes. 

" Avaunt ! avaunt ! from fiends below, the 

indignant ghost is riven — 
From Hell unto a high estate far up within 

the Heaven — 
From grief and groan, to a golden throne, 

beside the King of Heaven ! 
Let no bell toll, then, — lest her soul, amid 

its hallowed mirth,. 
Should catch the note as it doth float up 

from the damned Earth ! 



And I ! — to-night my heart is light ! — no 

dirge will I upraise, 
But waft the angel on her flight with a 

Paean of old days ! " 



TO ONE IN PARADISE 

Thou wast all that to me, love. 

For which my soul did pine: 
A green isle in the sea, love, 

A fountain and a shrine 
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, 

And all the flowers were mine. 

Ah, dream too bright to last ! 

Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise 
But to be overcast ! 

A voice from out the Future cries, 
" On ! on ! " — but o'er the Past 
' (Dim gulf !) my spirit hovering lies 
Mute, motionless, aghast. 

For, alas ! alas ! with me 

The light of Life is o'er ! 

No more — no more — no more — 
(Such language holds the solemn sea 

To the sands upon the shore) 
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, 

Or the stricken eagle soar. 

And all my days are trances. 

And all my nightly dreams 
Are where thy gray eye glances, 

And where thy footstep gleams — 
In what ethereal dances, 

By what eternal streams. 



THE CITY IN THE SEA 

Lo ! Death has reared himself a throne 

In a strange city lying alone 

Far down within the dim West, 

Where the good and the bad and the worst 

and the best 
Have gone to their eternal rest. 
There shrines and palaces and towers 
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not) 
Resemble nothing that is ours. 
Around, by lifting winds forgot, 
Resignedly beneath the sky 
The melancholy waters lie. 



148 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



No rays from the holy heaven come down 
On the long night-time of that town; 
But light from out the lurid sea 
Streams up the turrets silently, 
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free: 
Up domes, up spires, up kingly halls, 
Up fanes, up Babylon-like walls, 
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers 
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers, 
Up many and many a marvellous shrine 
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine 
The viol, the violet, and the vine. 

Resignedly beneath the sky 

The melancholy waters lie. 

So blend the turrets and shadows there 

That all seem pendulous in air, 

While from a proud tower in the town 

Death looks gigantically down. 

There open fanes and gaping graves 

Yawn level with the luminous waves ; 

But not the riches there that lie 

In each idol's diamond eye, — 

Not the gayly-jewelled dead, 

Tempt the waters from their bed; 

For no ripples curl, alas, 

Along that wilderness of glass; 

No swellings tell that winds may be 

Upon some far-off happier sea; 

No heavings hint that winds have been 

On seas less hideously serene ! 

But lo, a stir is in the air ! 
The wave — there is a movement there ! 
As if the towers had thrust aside, 
In slightly sinking, the dull tide; 
As if their tops had feebly given 
A void within the filmy Heaven ! 
The waves have now a redder glow. 
The hours are breathing faint and low; 
And when, amid no earthly moans, 
Down, down that town shall settle hence, 
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, 
Shall do it reverence. 



V ISRAFEL 

And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, 
and who has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures. — 
Koran. 

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell 

Whose heart-strings are a lute; 
None sing so wildly well 



As the angel Israfel, 
And the giddy stars (so legends tell), 
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell 
Of his voice, all mute. 

Tottering above 

In her highest noon. 

The enamoured moon 
Blushes with love. 

While, to listen, the red levin 

(With the rapid Pleiads, even, 

Which were seven) 

Pauses in Heaven. 

And they say (the starry choir 
And the other listening things) 

That Israfeli's fire 

Is owing to that lyre 

By which he sits and sings. 

The trembling living wire 
Of those unusual strings. 

But the skies that angel trod. 

Where deep thoughts are a duty, 

Where Love 's a grown-up God, 

Where the Houri glances are 
Imbued with all the beauty 

Which we worship in a star. 

Therefore thou art not wrong, 

Israfeli, who despisest 
An unimpassioned song; 
To thee the laurels belong, 

Best bard, because the wisest: 
Merrily live, and long ! 

The ecstasies above 

With thy burning measures suit: 
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love. 

With the fervor of thy lute: 

Well may the stars be mute ! 

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this 
Is a world of sweets and sours; 
Our flowers are merely — flowers. 

And the shadow of thy perfect bliss 
Is the sunshine of ours. 

If I could dwell 
Where Israfel 

Hath dwelt, and he where I, 
He might not sing so wildly well 

A mortal melody, 
While a bolder note than this might swell 

From my lyre within the sky. 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 



149 



THE HAUNTED PALACE 

In the greenest of our valleys 

By good angels tenanted, 
Once a fair and stately palace — 

Radiant palace — reared its head. 
In the monarch Thought's dominion, 

It stood there; 
Never seraph spread a pinion 

Over fabric half so fair. 

Banners yellow, glorious, golden, 

On its roof did float and flow 
(This — all this — was in the olden 

Time long ago), 
And every gentle air that dallied. 

In that sweet day, 
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 

A winged odor went away. 

Wanderers in that happy valley 

Through two luminous windows saw 
Spirits moving musically, 

To a lute's well-tuned law. 
Round about a throne where, sitting, 

Porphyrogene, 
In state his glory well befitting. 

The ruler of the realm was seen. 

And all with pearl and ruby glowing 

Was the fair palace door, 
Through which came flowing, flowing, flow- 
ing, 

And sparkling evermore, 
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty 

Was but to sing, 
In voices of surpassing beauty, 

The wit and wisdom of their king. 

But evil things, in robes of sorrow, 

Assailed the monarch's high estate; 
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow 

Shall dawn upon him desolate !) 
And round about his home the glory 

That blushed and bloomed, 
Is but a dim-remembered story 

Of the old time entombed. 

And travellers now within that valley 
Through the red-litteu windows see 

Vast forms that move fantastically 
To a discordant melody; 

While, like a ghastly rapid river, 
Through the pale door 



A hideous throng rush out forever, 
And laugh — but smile no more. 



THE CONQUEROR WORM 

Lo ! 't is a gala night 

Within the lonesome latter years. 
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight 

In veils, and drowned in tears. 
Sit in a theatre to see 

A play of hopes and fears, 
While the orchestra breathes fitfully 

The music of the spheres. 

Mimes, in the form of God on high, 

Mutter and mumble low. 
And hither and thither fly; 

Mere puppets they, who come and 
go 
At bidding of vast formless things 

That shift the scenery to and fro, 
Flapping from out their condor wings 

Invisible Woe. 

That motley drama — oh, be sure 

It shall not be forgot ! 
With its Phantom chased for evermore 

By a crowd that seize it not. 
Through a circle that ever returneth in 

To the self-same spot; 
And much of Madness, and more of 
Sin, 

And Horror the soul of the plot. 

But see amid the mimic rout 

A crawling shape intrude: 
A blood-red thing that writhes from out 

The scenic solitude ! 
It writhes — it writhes ! — with mortal 
pangs 

The mimes become its food. 
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs 

In human gore imbued. 

Out — out are the lights — out all ! 

And over each quivering form 
The curtain, a funeral pall. 

Comes down with the rush of a storm. 
While the angels, all pallid and wan. 

Uprising, unveiling, affirm 
That the play is the tragedy, " Man," 

And its hero, the Conqueror Worm. 



15° 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



- THE BELLS 



Hear the sledges with the bells, 
Silver bells ! 
What a world of njerriment their melody 
foretells ! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 

In the icy air of night ! 
While the stars, that oversprinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
With a crystalline delight; 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
To the tintinnabulation that so musically 
wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells — 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the 
bells. 



Hear the mellow wedding bells. 

Golden bells ! 

What a world of happiness their harmony 

foretells ! 

Through the balmy air of night 

How they ring out their delight ! 

From the molten-golden notes, 

And all in tune. 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she 
gloats 
On the moon ! 
Oh, from out the sounding cells. 
What a gush of euphony voluminously 
wells ! 
How it swells ! 
How it dwells 
On the Future ! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 

Of the bells, bells, bells. 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells — 
To the rhyming and the chiming of the 
bells ! 



Ill 

Hear the loud alarum bells, 
Brazen bells ! 
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency 

tells ! 



In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright ! 
Too much horrified to speak, 
They can only shriek, shriek, 
Out of tune. 
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of 

the fire. 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and 
frantic fire, 
Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire. 
And a resolute endeavor 
Now — now to sit or never. 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh, the bells, bells, bells I 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of Despair ! 
How they clang, and clash, and roar ! 
What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 
Yet the ear it fully knows, 
By the twanging 
And the clanging, 
How the danger ebbs and flows; 
Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
In the jangling 
And the wrangling. 
How the danger sinks and swells, — 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger 
of the bells. 
Of the bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells — 
In the clamor and the clangor of the 
bells ! 



Hear the tolling of the bells, 
Iron bells ! 
What a world of solemn thought their 
monody compels ! 
In the silence of the night 
How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 

Is a groan. 
And the people — ah, the people, 
They that dwell up in the steeple, 

All alone. 
And who tolling, tolling, tolling. 

In that muffled monotone. 
Feel a glory in so rolling 

On the human heart a stone — 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 



151 



They are neither man nor woman, 
They are neither brute nor human, 
They are Ghouls: 
And their king it is who tolls ; 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
Rolls 
A psean from the bells; 
And his merry bosom swells 

With the pgeau of the bells. 
And he dances, and he yells: 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
To the psean of the bells, 
Of the bells: 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the throbbing of the bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells — 

To the sobbing of the bells; 
Keeping time, time, time. 

As he knells, knells, knells. 
In a happy Runic rhyme, 
To the rolling of the bells, 
• Of the bells, bells, bells: 

To the tolling of the bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells — 
To the moaning and the groaning of the 
bells. 



. ANNABEL LEE 

It was many and many a year ago, 

In a kingdom by the sea. 
That a maiden there lived whom you may 
know 
By the name of Annabel Lee; 
And this maiden she lived with no other 
thought 
Thau to love and be loved by me. 

I was a child and she was a child, 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
But we loved with a love that was more 
than love, 
I and my Annabel Lee; 
With a love that the winged seraphs of 
heaven 
Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that, long ago, 

" In this kingdom by the sea, 

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 

My beautifid Annabel Lee; 



So that her highborn kinsmen came 
And bore her away from me, 

To shut her up in a sepulchre 
In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 

Went envying her and me ; 
Yes ! that was the reason (as all mien know, 

In this kingdom by the sea) 
That the wind came out of the cloud by 
night, 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than 
the love 

Of those who were older than we. 

Of many far wiser than we; 
And neither the angels in heaven above, 

Nor the demons down under the sea, 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: 

For the moon never beams, without bring- 
ing me dreams 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
And the stars never rise, but I feel the 
bright eyes 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the 

side 
Of my darling — my darling — my life and 
my bride. 
In her sepulchre there by the sea, 
In her tomb by the sounding sea. 



ULALUME 

The skies they were ashen and sober; 

The leaves they were crisped and sere, 

The leaves they were withering and 
sere; 
It was night in the lonesome October 

Of my most immemorial year; 
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, 

In the misty mid region of Weir: 
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, 

In the ghoul-haunted woodland of 
Weir. 

Here once, through an alley Titanic 

Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul — 
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. 

These were days when my heart was vol- 
canic 



152 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



As the scoriae rivers that roll, 

As the lavas that restlessly roll 
Their sulphurous curreuts down Yaanek 

lu the ultimate climes of the pole, 
That groan as they roll down Mount 
Yaanek 

In the realms of the boreal pole. 

Our talk had been serious and sober, 

But our thoughts they were palsied 

and sere, 
Our memories were treacherous and 
sere, 
For we knew not the mouth was Octo- 
ber, 
And we marked not the night of the 

year, 
(Ah, night of all nights in the year !) 
We noted not the dim lake of Auber 

(Though once we had journeyed down 
here), 
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber 
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of 
Weir. 

And now, as the night was senescent 
And star-dials pointed to morn. 
As the star-dials hinted of morn, 

At the end of our path a liquescent 
And nebulous lustre was born. 

Out of which a miraculous crescent 
Arose with a duplicate horn, 

Astarte's bediamonded crescent 

Distinct with its duplicate horn. 

And I said — " She is warmer than Dian : 
She rolls through an ether of sighs. 
She revels in a region of sighs: 

She has seen that the tears are not dry on 
These cheeks, where the worm never 
dies, 

And has come past the stars of the Lion 
To point us the path to the skies, 
To the Lethean peace of the skies: 

Come up, in despite of the Lion, 

To shine on us with her bright eyes: 

Come up through the lair of the Lion, 
With love in her luminous eyes." 

But Psyche, uplifting her finger, 

Said — " Sadly this star I mistrust, 
Her pallor I strangely mistrust: 

Oh, hasten ! — oh, let us not linger ! 

Oh, fly ! — let us fly ! — for we must." 



In terror she spoke, letting sink her 

Wings until they trailed in the dust; 

In agony sobbed, letting sink her 

Plumes till they trailed in the dust, 
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the 
dust. 

I replied — " This is nothing but dream- 
ing : 
Let us on by this tremulous light ! 
Let us bathe in this crystalline light ! , 
Its sibyllic splendor is beaming 

With hope and in beauty to-night: 
See, it flickers up the sky through the 
night ! 
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming, 

And be sure it will lead us aright: 
We safely may trust to a gleaming 
That cannot but guide us aright, 
Since it flickers up to Heaven through 
the night." 

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, 
And tempted her out of her gloom. 
And conquered her scruples and gloom; 

And we passed to the end of the vista. 

But were stopped by the door of a 

tomb, 
By the door of a legended tomb; 

And I said — " What is written, sweet sister, 
On the door of this legended tomb ? " 
She replied — " Ulalume — Ula' 

lume — 
'T is the vault of thy lost Ulalume ! " 

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober 
As the leaves that were crisped and 

sere. 
As the leaves that were withering and 
sere. 
And I cried — " It was surely October 
On this very night of last year 
That I journeyed — I journeyed down 

here, 
That I brought a dread burden down 

here: 
On this night of all nights in the 

year. 
Ah, what demon has tempted me here ? 
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber, 

This misty mid region of Weir: 
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, 
This ghoul-haunted woodland of 
Weir." 



J 



S. F. SMITH — RAY PALMER — O. W. HOLMES 



153 



Samuel frantic ^mitt^ 



AMERICA 

My country, 't is of thee, 
Sweet land of liberty, 

Of thee I sing; 
Land where my fathers died, 
Land of the pilgrims' pride, 
From every mountain-side 

Let freedom ring. 

My native country, thee, • 
Land of the noble free, — 

Thy name I love ; 
I love thy rocks and rills. 
Thy woods and templed hills ; 
My heart with rapture thrills 

Like that above. 



Let music swell the breeze. 
And ring from all the trees, 

Sweet freedom's song; 
Let mortal tongues awake, 
Let all that breathe partake. 
Let rocks their silence break. 

The sound prolong. 

Our fathers' God, to Thee, 
Author of liberty, 

To Thee I sing; 
Long may our land be bright 
With freedom's holy light; 
Protect us by thy might. 

Great God our King. 
1832. 



lHap palmer 



FAITH 

My faith looks up to Thee, 
Thou Lamb of Calvary, 

Saviour divine ! 
Now hear me while I pray, 
Take all my guilt away, 
O let me from this day 

Be wholly Thine ! 

May Thy rich grace impart 
Strength to my fainting heart, 

My zeal inspire ; 
As Thou hast died for me, 
O may ray love for Thee 
Pure, warm, and changeless be, 

A living fire ! 



While life's dark maze I tread, 
And, griefs around me spread. 

Be Thou my guide; 
Bid darkness turn to day, 
Wipe sorrow's tears away. 
Nor let me ever stray 

From Thee aside. 

When ends life's transient dream, 
When death's cold, sullen stream 

Shall o'er me roll; 
Blest Saviour, then, in love. 
Fear and distrust remove; 
O bear me safe above, 

A ransomed soul ! 
1830. 



(&\i\}tt l^cntidl ]^olme^ 



OLD IRONSIDES 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! 

Long has it waved on high, 
And many an eye has danced to see 

That banner in the sky ; 
Beneath it rung the battle shout, 

And burst the cannon's roar; — 



The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep the clouds no more. 

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood. 
Where knelt the vanquished foe. 

When winds were hurrying o'er the 
flood. 
And waves were white below, 



154 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



No more shall feel tlie victor's tread, 


And a crook is in his back. 


Or know the conquered knee ; 


And a melancholy crack 


The harpies of the shore shall pluck 


In his laugh. 


The eagle of the sea ! 






I know it is a sin 


0, better that her shattered hulk 


For me to sit and grin 


Should sink beneath the wave; 


At him here ; 


Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 


But the old three-cornered hat. 


And there should be her grave; 


And the breeches, and all that. 


Nail to the mast her holy flag, 


Are so queer ! 


Set every threadbare sail. 




And give her to the god of storms, 


And if I should live to be . 


The lightning and the gale ! 


The last leaf upon the tree 




In the spring, 




Let them smile, as I do now, 


THE LAST LEAF 


At the old forsaken bough 




Where I cling. 


I SAW him once before, 




As he passed by the door, 




And again 




The pavement stones resound. 


THE HEIGHT OF THE 


As he totters o'er the ground 


RIDICULOUS 


With his cane. 






I WROTE some lines once on a time 


They say that in his prime. 


In wondrous merry mood. 


Ere the pruning-knife of Time 


And thought, as usual, men would say 


Cut him down, 


They were exceeding good. 


Not a better man was found 




By the Crier on his round 


They were so queer, so very queer, 


Through the town. 


I laughed as I would die; 




Albeit, in the general way. 


But now he walks the streets. 


A sober man am I. 


And he looks at all he meets 




Sad and wan, 


I called my servant, and he came; 


And he shakes his feeble head, 


How kind it was of him 


That it seems as if he said. 


To mind a slender man like me. 


" They are gone." 


He of the mighty limb. 


The mossy marbles rest 


" These to the printer," I exclaimed. 


On the lips that he has prest 


And, in my humorous way. 


In their bloom, 


I added (as a trifling jest,) 


And the names he loved to hear 


" There '11 be the devil to pay." 


Have been carved for maiiy a year 




On the tomb. 


He took the paper, and I watched. 




And saw him peep within; 


My grandmamma has said — 


At the first line he read, his face 


Poor old lady, she is dead 


Was all upon the grin. 


Long ago — 




That he had a Roman nose, 


He read the next; the grin grew broad, 


And his cheek was like a rose 


And shot from ear to ear; 


In the snow; 


He read the third ; a chuckling noise 




I now began to hear. 


But now his nose is thin. 




And it rests upon his chin 


The fourth; he broke into a roar; 


Like a stafE, 


The fifth; his waistband split; 



J 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 



155 



The sixth; he burst five buttons oflP, 
And tumbled in a fit. 

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, 
I watched that wretched man, 

And since, I never dare to write 
As funny as I can. 



LA GRISETTE 

Ah, Clemence ! when I saw thee last 

Trip down the Rue de Seine, 
And turning, when thy form had past, 

I said, " We meet again," — 
I dreamed not in that idle glance 

Thy latest image came. 
And only left to memory's trance 

A shadow and a name. 

The few strange words my lips had taught 

Thy timid voice to speak. 
Their gentler signs, which often brought 

Fresh roses to thy cheek, 
The trailing of thy long loose hair 

Bent o'er my couch of pain. 
All, all returned, more sweet, more fair; 

Oh, had we met again ! 

I walked where saint and virgin keep 

The vigil lights of Heaven, 
I knew that thou hadst woes to weep. 

And sins to be forgiven; 
I watched where Genevieve was laid, 

I knelt by Mary's shrine. 
Beside me low, soft voices prayed; 

Alas ! but where was thine ? 

And when the morning sun was bright. 

When wind and wave were calm, 
And flamed, in thousand-tinted light, 

The rose of Notre Dame, 
I wandered through the haimts of men. 

From Boulevard to Quai, 
Till, frowning o'er Saint Etienne, 

The Pantheon's shadow lay. 

In vain, in vain; we meet no more, 

Nor dream what fates befall; 
And long upon the stranger's shore 

My voice on thee may call. 
When years have clothed the line in moss 

That tells thy name and days. 
And withered, on thy simple cross. 

The wreaths of P6re-la-Chaise I 



ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL 

This ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of 

good old times. 
Of joyous days and jolly nights, and merry 

Christmas chimes; 
They were a free and jovial race, but hon= 

est, brave, and true. 
Who dipped their ladle in the punch wher 

this old bowl was new. 

A Spanish galleon brought the bar, — so 

runs the ancient tale; 
'T was hammered by an Antwerp smith, 

whose arm was like a flail ; 
And now and then between the strokes, for 

fear his strength should fail. 
He wiped his brow and quaffed a cup of 

good old Flemish ale. 

'T was purchased by an English squire to 

please his loving dame, 
Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a 

longing for the same; 
And oft as on the ancient stock another 

twig was found, 
'T was filled with caudle spiced and hot, and 

handed smoking round. 

But, changing hands, it reached at length a 
Puritan divine, 

Who used to follow Timothy, and take a 
little wine. 

But hated punch and prelacy; and so it 
was, perhaps, 

He went to Leyden, where he found con- 
venticles and schnapps. 

And then, of course, you know what 's next: 

it left the Dutchman's shore 
With those that in the Mayflower came, — 

a hundred souls and more, — 
Along with all the furniture, to fill their 

new abodes, — 
To judge by what is still on hand, at least 

a hundred loads. 

'T was on a dreary winter's eve, the night 

was closing dim, 
When brave Miles Standish took the bowl, 

and filled it to the brim; 
The little Captain stood and stirred the 

posset with his sword, 
And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged 

about the board. 



156 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



He poured the fiery Hollands in, — the 

man that never feared, — 
He took a long and solemn draught, and 

wiped his yellow beard; 
And one by one the musketeers — the men 

that fought and prayed — 
All drank as 't were their mother's milk, 

and not a man afraid. 

That night, affrighted from his nest, the 

screaming eagle flew, 
He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the 

soldier's wild halloo; 
And there the sachem learned the rule he 

taught to kith and kin: 
" Run from the white man when yon find 

he smells of Hollands gin ! " 

A hundred years, and fifty more, had 

spread their leaves and snows, 
A thousand rubs had flattened down each 

little cherub's nose. 
When once again the bowl was filled, but 

not in mirth or joy, — 
'T was mingled by a mother's hand to cheer 

her parting boy. 

" Drink, John," she said, " 't will do you 

good, — poor child, you '11 never 

bear 
This working in the dismal trench, out in 

the midnight air; 
And if — God bless me ! — you were hurt, 

't would keep away the chill." 
So John did drink, — and well he wrought 

that night at Bunker's Hill ! 

I tell you, there was generous warmth in 

good old English cheer; 
I tell you, 't was a pleasant thought to 

bring its symbol here: 
'T is but the fool that loves excess ; hast 

thou a drunken soul ? 
Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my 

silver bowl ! 

I love the memory of the past, — its pressed 

yet fragrant flowers, — 
The moss that clothes its broken walls, the 

ivy on its towers; 
Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed, — my 

eyes grow moist and dim, 
To think of all the vanished joys that 

danced around its brim. 



Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it 

straight to me; 
The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er 

the liquid be; 
And may the cherubs on its face protect 

me from the sin 
That dooms one to those dreadful words, 

— " My dear, where have you 

been ? " 



AFTER A LECTURE ON KEATS 

" Purpureos spargam flores." 

The wreath that star-crowned Shelley gave 

Is lying on thy Roman grave, 

Yet on its turf young April sets 

Her store of slender violets; 

Though all the Gods their garlands shower, 

I too may bring one purple flower. 

Alas ! what blossom shall I bring. 

That opens in my Northern spring ? 

The garden beds have all run wild, 

So trim when I was yet a child ; 

Flat plantains and unseemly stalks 

Have crept across the gravel walks; 

The vines are dead, long, long ago, 

The almond buds no longer blow. 

No more upon its mound I see 

The azure, plume-bound fleur-de-lis; 

Where once the tulips used to show, 

In straggling tufts the pansies grow; 

The grass has quenched my white-rayed 

gem. 
The flowering " Star of Bethlehem," 
Though its long blade of glossy green 
And pallid stripe may still be seen. 
Nature, who treads her nobles down, 
And gives their birthright to the clown. 
Has sown her base-born weedy things 
Above the garden's queens and kings. 
Yet one sweet flower of ancient race 
Springs in the old familiar place. 
When snows were melting down the vale. 
And Earth unlaced her icy mail. 
And March his stormy trumpet blew. 
And tender green came peeping through, 
I loved the earliest one to seek 
That broke the soil with emerald beak, 
And watch the trembling bells so blue 
Spread on the column as it grew. 
Meek child of earth ! thou wilt not 

shame 
The sweet, dead poet's holy name; 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 



157 



The God of music gave thee birth, 
Called from the crimson-spotted earth. 
Where, sobbing his young life away. 
His own fair Hyacinthus lay. 
The hyacinth my garden gave 
Shall lie upon that Roman grave ! 



THE VOICELESS 

We count the broken lyres that rest 

Where the sweet wailing singers slum- 
ber, 
But o'er their silent sister's breast 

The wild-flowers who will stoop to num- 
ber ? 
A few can touch the magic string. 

And noisy Fame is proud to win them : — 
Alas for those that never sing, 

But die with all their music in them ! 

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone 

Whose song has told their hearts' sad 
story,— 
Weep for the voiceless, who have known 

The cross without the crown of gloi-y ! 
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep 

O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow. 
But where the glistening night-dews weep 

On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow. 

O hearts that break and give no sign 

Save whitening lip and fading tresses. 
Till Death pours out his longed-for wine 

Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing 
presses, — ■ 
If singing breath or echoing chord 

To every hidden pang were given, 
What endless melodies were poured. 

As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven ! 



THE LIVING TEMPLE 

Not in the world of light alone. 
Where God has built his blazing throne. 
Nor yet alone in earth below. 
With belted seas that come and go. 
And endless isles of sunlit green, 
Is all thy Maker's glory seen: 
Look in upon thy wondrous frame, — 
Eternal wisdom still the same ! 



The smooth, soft air with pulse-like waves 
Flows murmuring through its hidden caves. 
Whose streams of brightening purple 

rush. 
Fired with a new and livelier blush, 
While all their burden of decay 
The ebbing current steals away. 
And red with Nature's flame they start 
From the warm fountains of the heart. 

No rest that throbbing slave may ask, 
Forever quivering o'er his task. 
While far and wide a crimson jet 
Leaps forth to fill the woven net 
Which in unnumbered crossing tides 
The flood of burning life divides, 
Then, kindling each decaying part, 
Creeps back to find the throbbing heart. 

But warmed with that unchanging flame 
Behold the outward moving frame, 
Its living marbles jointed strong 
With glistening band and silvery thong, 
And linked to reason's guiding reins 
By myriad rings in trembling chains. 
Each graven with the threaded zone 
Which claims it as the master's own. 

See how yon beam of seeming white 
Is braided out of seven-hued light. 
Yet in those lucid globes no ray 
By any chance shall break astray. 
Hark how the rolling surge of sound, 
Arches and spirals circling round. 
Wakes the hushed spirit through thine eat 
With music it is heaven to hear. 

Then mark the cloven sphere that holds 
All thought in its mysterious folds; 
That feels sensation's faintest thrill. 
And flashes forth the sovereign will; 
Think on the stormy world that dwells 
Locked in its dim and clustering cells ! 
The lightning gleams of power it sheds 
Along its hollow glassy threads ! 

O Father ! grant thy love divine 
To make these mystic temples thine ! 
When wasting age and wearying strife 
Have sapped the leaning walls of life. 
When darkness gathers over all. 
And the last tottering pillars fall. 
Take the poor dust thy mercy warms. 
And mould it into heavenly forms ! 



iS8 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign. 
Sails the unshadowed main, — 
The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled 

wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, 

And coral reefs lie bare, 
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their 
streaming hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; 
Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! 
And every chambered cell, 
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to 

dwell, 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 

Before thee lies revealed, — 
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt un- 
sealed ! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 
That spread his lustrous coil; 
Still, as the spiral grew. 
He left the past year's dwelling for the 

new, 
Stole with soft step its shining archway 
through. 
Built up its idle door. 
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew 
the old no more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought 
by thee, 
Child of the wandering sea. 
Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed 
horn ! 
While on mine ear it rings. 
Through the deep caves of thought I hear 
a voice that sings : — 

Build thee more stately mansions, O my 
soul. 
As the swift seasons roll ! 
Leave thy low-vaulted past ! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more 
vast. 
Till thou at length art free, 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's un- 
resting sea ! 



BILL AND JOE 

Come, dear old comrade, you and I 
Will steal an hour from days gone by, 
The shining days when life was new, 
And all was bright with morning dew, 
The lusty days of long ago, 
When you were Bill and I was Joe. 

Your name may flaunt a titled trail 
Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail, 
And mine as brief appendix wear 
As Tam O'Shanter's luckless mare; 
To-day, old friend, remember still 
That I am Joe and you are Bill. 

You 've won the great world's envied prize. 
And grand you look in people's eyes, 
With HON. and LL. D. 
In big brave letters, fair to see, — 
Your fist, old fellow ! oflE they go ! — 
How are you, Bill ? How are you, Joe ? 

You 've worn the judge's ermined robe ; 
You 've taught your name to half the globe ; 
You 've sung mankind a deathless strain; 
You 've made the dead past live again: 
The world may call you what it will, 
But you and I are Joe and Bill. 

The chaffing young folks stare and say 
" See those old buffers, bent and gray, — 
They talk like fellows in their teens ! 
Mad, poor old boys ! That 's what it 

means," — 
And shake their heads ; they little know 
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe ! — 

How Bill forgets his hour of pride. 
While Joe sits smiling at his side; 
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise, 
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes, — 
Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill 
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill. 

Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame ? 

A fitful tongue of leaping flame ; 

A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust. 

That lifts a pinch of mortal dust; 

A few swift years, and who can show 

Which dust was Bill and which was Joe ? 

The weary idol takes his stand. 
Holds out his bruised and aching hand. 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 



159 



While gaping thousands come and go, — 
How vain it seems, this empty show ! 
Till all at once his pulses thrill; — 
'T is poor old Joe's " God bless you. Bill ! " 

And shall we breathe in happier spheres 
The names that pleased our mortal ears. 
In some sweet lull of harp and song 
For earth-born spirits none too long, 
Just whispering of the world below 
Where this was Bill and that was Joe ? 

No matter; while our home is here 
No sounding name is half so dear; 
When fades at length our lingering day. 
Who cares what pompous tombstones say ? 
Read on the hearts that love us still, 
Hie jacet Joe. Hie jacet Bill. 



UNDER THE VIOLETS 

Her hands are cold; her face is white; 
No more her pulses come and go; 

Her eyes are shut to life and light; — 
Fold the white vesture, snow on snow. 
And lay her where the violets blow. 

But not beneath a graven stone. 
To plead for tears with alien eyes; 

A slender cross of wood alone 
Shall say, that here a maiden lies 
In peace beneath the peaceful skies. 

And gray old trees of hugest limb 

Shall wheel their circling shadows round 

To make the scorching sunlight dim 

That drinks the greenness from tbe 

ground, 
And drop their dead leaves on her mound. 

When o'er their boughs the squirrels run. 
And through their leaves the robins call. 

And, ripening in the autumn sun. 
The acorns and the chestnuts fall, 
Doubt not that she will heed them all. 

For her the morning choir shall sing 
Its matins from the branches high, 

And every minstrel-voice of Spring, 
That trills beneath the April sky. 
Shall greet her with its earliest cry. 

When, turning round their dial-track, 
Eastward the lengthening shadows pass, 



Her little mourners, clad in black, 

The crickets, sliding through the grass, 
Shall pipe for her an evening mass. 

At last the rootlets of the trees 

Shall find the prison where she lies, 

And bear the buried dust they seize 
In leaves and blossoms to the skies. 
So may the soul that warmed it rise ! 

If any, born of kindlier blood. 

Should ask, Whsit maiden lies below ? 

Say only this: A tender bud, 

That tried to blossom in the snow, 
Lies withered where the violets blow. 



HYMN OF TRUST 

O Love Divine, that stooped to share 
Our sharpest pang, our bitterest tear, 

On Thee we cast each earth-born care, 
We smile at pain while Thou art near ! 

Though long the weary way we tread. 
And sorrow crown each lingering year. 

No path we shun, no darkness dread. 
Our hearts stiU whispering, Thou art 
near ! 

When drooping pleasure turns to grief. 
And trembling faith is changed to fear. 

The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf. 
Shall softly tell us, Thou art near ! 

On Thee we fling our burdening woe, 
O Love Divine, forever dear, . 

Content to suffer while we know. 
Living and dying, Thou art near ! 



EPILOGUE TO THE BREAKFAST- 
TABLE SERIES 

AUTOCRAT — PROFESSOR — POET 

At a Bookstore 
A nno Domini ZQJS 

A CRAZY bookcase, placed before 
A low-price dealer's open door; 
Therein arrayed in broken rows 
A ragged crew of rhyme and prose, 
The homeless vagrants, waifs, and strays 
Whose low estate this line betrays 



i6o 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



(Set forth the lesser birds to lime) 

Your choice among these books 1 dime ! 

Ho ! dealer; for its motto's sake 
This scarecrow from the shelf I take; 
Three starveling volumes bound in one, 
Its covers warping in the sun. 
Methinks it hath a musty smell, 
I like its flavor none too well. 
But Yorick's brain was far from dull, 
Though Hamlet pah ! 'd, and dropped his 
skull. 

Why, here comes rain ! The sky grows 

dark, — 
Was that the roll of thunder ? Hark ! 
The shop affords a safe retreat, 
A chair extends its welcome seat. 
The tradesman has a civil look 
(I 've paid, impromptu, for my book). 
The clouds portend a sudden shower, — 
I '11 read my purchase for an hour. 



What have I rescued from the shelf ? 
A Boswell, writing out himself ! 
For though he changes dress and name, 
The man beneath is still the same, 
Laughing or sad, by fits and starts, 
One actor in a dozen parts, 
And whatsoe'er the mask may be, 
The voice assures us. This is he. 

I say not this to cry him down; 
I find my Shakespeare in his clown, 
His rogues the selfsame parent own; 
Nay ! Satan talks in Milton's tone ! 
Where'er the ocean inlet strays. 
The salt sea wave its source betrays; 
Where'er the queen of summer blows, 
She tells the zephyr, " I 'm the rose ! " 

And his is not the playwright's page; 
His table does not ape the stage; 
What matter if the figures seen 
Are only shadows on a screen, 
He finds in them his lurking thought, 
And on their lips the words he sought, 
Like one who sits before the keys 
And plays a tune himself to please. 

And was he noted in his day ? 

Read, flattered, honored ? Who shall say ? 

Poor wreck of time the wave has cast 



To find a peaceful shore at last. 
Once glorying in thy gilded name 
And freighted deep with hopes of fame, 
Thy leaf is moistened with a tear. 
The first for many a long, long year ! 

For be it more or less of art 

That veils the lowliest human heart 

Where passion throbs, where friendship 

glows. 
Where pity's tender tribute flows, 
Where love has lit its fragrant fire. 
And sorrow quenched its vain desire, 
For me the altar is divine. 
Its flame, its ashes, — all are mine ! 

And thou, my brother, as I look 
And see thee pictured in thy book. 
Thy years on every page confessed 
In shadows lengthening from the west, 
Thy glance that wanders, as it sought 
Some freshly opening flower of thought, 
Thy hopeful nature, light and free, 
I start to find myself in thee ! 



Come, vagrant, outcast, wretch forlorn 
In leather jerkin stained and torn, 
Whose talk has filled my idle hour 
And made me half forget the shower, 
I '11 do at least as much for yon. 
Your coat I '11 patch, your gilt renew. 
Read you — perhaps — some other time. 
Not bad, my bargain ! Price one dime ! 



DOROTHY Q. 

A FAMILY PORTRAIT 

Grandmother's mother: her age, I guess, 
Thirteen summers, or something less; 
Girlish bust, but womanly air; 
Smooth, square forehead withuprolled hair; 
Lips that lover has never kissed ; 
Taper fingers and slender wrist; 
Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade; 
So they painted the little maid. 

On her hand a parrot green 
Sits unmoving and broods serene. 
Hold up the canvas full in view, — 
Look ! there 's a rent the light shines 
through. 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 



161 



Dark with a century's fringe of dust, — 
That was a Red-Coat's rapier-thrust ! 
. Such is the tale the lady old, 
Dorothy's daughter's daughter, told. 

Who the painter was none may tell, — 
One whose best was not over well; 
Hard and dry, it must be confessed. 
Flat as a rose that has long been pressed; 
Yet in her cheek the hues are bright, 
Dainty colors of red and white, 
And in her slender shape are seen 
Hint and promise of stately mien. 

Look not on her with eyes of scorn, — 
Dorothy Q. was a lady born ! 
Ay ! since the galloping Normans came, 
England's annals have known her name; 
And still to the three-hilled rebel town 
Dear is that ancient name's renown. 
For many a civic wreath they won, 
The youthful sire and the gray-haired son, 

O Damsel Dorothy ! Dorothy Q. ! 
Strange is the gift that I owe to you; 
Such a gift as never a king 
Save to daughter or son might bring, — 
All my tenure of heart and hand. 
All my title to house and land; 
Mother and sister and child and wife 
And joy and sorrow and death and life ! 

What if a hundred years ago 

Those close-shut lips had answered No, 

When forth the tremulous question came 

That cost the maiden her Norman name, 

And under the folds that look so still 

The bodice swelled with the bosom's thrill ? 

Should I be I, or would it be 

One tenth another, to nine tenths me ? 

Soft is the breath of a maiden's Yes : 
Not the light gossamer stirs with less; 
But never a cable that holds so fast 
Through all the battles of wave and blast, 
And never an echo of speech or song 
That lives in the babbling air so long ! 
There were tones in the voice that whis- 
pered then 
You may hear to-day in a hundred men. 

O lady and lover, how faint and far 
Your images hover, — and here we are, 
Solid and stirring in flesh and bone, — 
Edward's and Dorothy's — all their own, — 



A goodly record for Time to show 
Of a syllable spoken so long ago ! — 
Shall I bless you, Dorothy, or forgive 
For the tender whisper that bade me live ? 

It shall be a blessing, my little maid ! 

I will heal the stab of the Red-Coat's blade, 

And freshen the gold of the tarnished 

frame. 
And gild with a rhyme your household 

name ; 
So you shall smile on us brave and bright 
As first you greeted the morning's light, 
And live untroubled by woes and fears 
Through a second youth of a hundred years. 



CACOETHES SCRIBENDI 

If all the trees in all the woods were 

men; 
And each and every blade of grass a pen; 
If every leaf on every shrub and tree 
Turned to a sheet of foolscap; every sea 
Were changed to ink, and all earth's living 

tribes 
Had nothing else to do but act as scribes, 
And for ten thoiisand ages, day and night. 
The human race should write, and write, 

and write, 
Till all the pens and paper were used up, 
And the huge inkstand was an empty cup. 
Still would the scribblers clustered round 

its brink 
Call for more pens, more paper, and more 

ink. 



THE STRONG HEROIC LINE 

Friends of the Muse, to you of right belong 
The first staid footsteps of my square-toed 

song; 
Full well I know the strong heroic line 
Has lost its fashion since I made it mine; 
But there are tricks old singers will not 

learn. 
And this grave measure still must serve 

my turn. 
So the old bird resumes the selfsame note 
His first young summer wakened in his 

throat; 
The selfsame tune the old canary sings. 
And all unchanged the bobolink's carol 

rings ; 



l62 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



When the tired songsters of the day are 

still 
The thrush repeats his long-remembered 

trill; 
Age alters not the crow's persistent caw, 
The Yankee's "Haow," the stammering 

Briton's "Haw;" 
And so the hand that takes the lyre for 

you 
Plays the old tune on strings that once 

were new. 
Nor let the rhymester of the hour deride 
The straight-backed measure with its 

stately stride: 
It gave the mighty voice of Dryden scope ; 
It sheathed the steel-bright epigrams of 

Pope; 
In Goldsmith's verse it learned a sweeter 

strain ; 
Byron and Campbell wore its clanking 

chain ; 
I smile to listen while the critic's scorn 
Flouts the proud purple kings have nobly 

worn ; 
Bid each new rhymer try his dainty skill 
And mould his frozen phrases as he will; 
We thank the artist for his neat device ; 
The shape is pleasing, though the stuff is 



Fashions will change — the new costume 
allures, 

Unfading still the better type endures; 

While the slashed doublet of the cavalier 

Gave the old knight the pomp of chanti- 
cleer, 

Our last-hatched dandy with his glass and 
stick 

Recalls the semblance of a new-born chick; 

(To match the model he is aiming at 

He ought to wear an eggshell for a hat). 

Which of these objects would a painter 
choose. 

And which Velasquez or Van Dyck refuse ? 



FROM "THE IRON GATE" 

As on the gauzy wings of fancy flying 
From some far orb I track our watery 
sphere, 



Home of the struggling, suffering, doubting, 
dying. 
The silvered globule seems a glistening 
tear. 

But Nature lends her mirror of illusion 
To win from saddening scenes our age- 
dimmed eyes. 
And misty day-dreams blend in sweet con- 
fusion 
The wintry landscape and the summer 
skies. 

So when the iron portal shuts behind us. 

And life forgets us in its noise and whirl. 
Visions that shunned the glaring noonday 
find us. 
And glimmering starlight shows the gates 
of pearl. 

I come not here your morning hour to 
sadden, 
A limping pilgrim, leaning on his staff, — 
I, who have never deemed it sin to glad- 
den 
This vale of sorrows with a wholesome 
laugh. 

If word of mine another's gloom has 
brightened. 
Through my dumb lips the heaven-sent 
message came; 
If hand of mine another's task has light- 
ened. 
It felt the guidance that it dares not 
claim. 

But, O my gentle sisters, O my brothers, 
These thick-sown snow-flakes hint of 
toil's release; 
These feebler pulses bid me leave to others 
The tasks once welcome; evening asks 
for peace. 

Time claims his tribute; silence now is 
golden ; 
Let me not vex the too long suffering 
lyre; 
Though to your love untiring still beholden. 
The curfew tells me — cover up the 
fire. 



KEMBLE— PIKE 



163 



Jprancei^ 3llniic Mtmblt^ 



LAMENT OF A MOCKING-BIRD 

Silence instead of thy sweet song, my bird, 
Which through the darkness of my win- 
ter days 
Warbling of summer sutishine still was 
heard ; 
Mute is thy song, and vacant is thy place. 

The spring comes back again, the fields re- 
joice, 
Carols of gladness ring from every tree ; 
But I shall hear thy wild triumphant voice 
No more: my summer song has died 
with thee. 

What didst thou sing of, O my summer 
bird? 
The broad, bright, brimming river, 
whose swift sweep 
And whirling eddies by the home are heard. 
Rushing, resistless, to the calling deep. 

What didst thou sing of, thou melodious 
sprite ? 
Pine forests, with smooth russet carpets 
spread. 
Where e'en at noonday dimly falls the 
light, 
Through gloomy blue-green branches 
overhead. 



What didst thou sing of, O thou jubilant 
soul? 
Ever-fresh flowers and never-leafless 
trees. 
Bending great ivory cups to the control 
Of the soft swaying orange-scented, 
breeze. 

What didst thou sing of, thou embodied 
glee ? 
The wide wild marshes with their clash- 
ing reeds 
And topaz-tinted channels, where the sea 
Daily its tides of briny freshness leads. 

What didst thou sing of, O thou winged 
voice ? 
Dark, bronze-leaved oaks, with silver 
mosses crowned. 
Where thy free kindred live, love, and re- 
joice, 
With wreaths of golden jasmine curtained 
round. 

These didst thou sing of, spirit of delight ! 
From thy own radiant sky, thou quiver- 
ing spark ! 
These thy sweet southern dreams of warmth 
and light. 
Through the grim northern winter drear 
and dark. 



%mvt pm 



TO THE MOCKING-BIRD 

Thou glorious mocker of the world ! I hear 
Thy many voices ringing through the 
glooms 
Of these green solitudes; and all the clear, 
Bright joyance of their song enthralls the 
ear, 
And floods the heart. Over the sphered 
tombs 
Of vanished nations rolls thy music-tide : 
No light from History's starlit page il- 
lumes 
The memory of these nations; they have 
died: 



None care for them but thou; and thou 

mayst sing 
O'er me, perhaps, as now thy clear notes 

ring 
Over their bones by whom thou once wast 

deified. 

Glad scorner of all cities ! Thou dost leave 
The world's mad turmoil and incessant 
din. 
Where none in others' honesty believe, 
Where the old sigh, the young turn gray 
and grieve, 
Where misery gnaws the maiden's heart 
within. 



1 See Biographical Note, p. 804. 



164 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Thou fleest far into the dark green woods, 
Where, with thy flood of music, thou 
canst win 

Their heart to harmony, and where intrudes 
No discord on thy melodies. Oh, where, 
Among the sweet musicians of the air, 

Is one so dear as thou to these old solitudes ? 

Ha ! what a burst was that ! The JEolian 
strain 
Goes floating through the tangled pas- 
sages 
Of the still woods ; and now it comes again, 
A multitudinous melody, like a rain 

Of glassy music under echoing trees, 
Close by a ringing lake. It wraps the soul 

With a bright harmony of happiness. 
Even as a gem is wrapped when round it 
roll 
Thin waves of crimson flame, till we be- 
come, 
With the excess of perfect pleasure, 
dumb. 
And pant like a swift runner clinging to 
the goal. 

I cannot love the man who doth not love, 
As men love light, the song of happy 
birds ; 
For the first visions that my boy-heart 

wove, 
To fill its sleep with, were that I did rove 
Through the fre-sh woods, what time the 
snowy herds 
Of morning clouds shrunk from the ad- 
vancing sun, 
Into the depths of Heaven's blue heart, 
as words 
From the poet's lips float gently, one by one. 
And vanish in the human heart; and 

then 
I revelled in such songs, and sorrowed, 
when, 
With noon-heat overwrought, the music- 
gush was done. 

I would, sweet bird, that I might live with 
thee. 
Amid the eloquent grandeur of these 
shades, 
Alone with Nature ! — but it may not be : 
I have to struggle with the stormy sea 

' Of human life until existence fades 
Into death's darkness. Thou wilt sing and 
soar 



Through the thick woods and shadow- 
chequered glades, 
While pain and sorrow cast no dimness o'er 
The brilliance of thy heart; but I must 

wear, 
As now, my garments of regret and care, 
As penitents of old their galling sackcloth 
wore. 

Yet, why complain ? What though fond 
hopes deferred 
Have overshadowed Life's green paths 
with gloom ? 
Content's soft music is not all unheard: 
There is a voice sweeter than thine, sweet 
bird. 
To welcome me, within my humble home ; 
There is an eye, with love's devotion bright, 

The darkness of existence to illume. 
Then why complain ? When Death shall 
cast his blight 
Over the spirit, my cold bones shall rest 
Beneath these trees ; and from thy swell- 
ing breast 
Over them pour thy song, like a rich flood 
of light. 



THE WIDOWED HEART 

Thou art lost to me forever ! — I have lost 

thee, Isadore ! 
Thy head will never rest upon my loyal 

bosom more; 
Thy tender eyes will never more look fondly 

into mine. 
Nor thine arms around me lovingly and 

trustingly entwine, — 
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore ! 

Thou art dead and gone, dear loving wife, 

thy heart is still and cold. 
And mine, benumbed with wretchedness, 

is prematurely old: 
Of our whole world of love and joy thou 

wast the only light, — 
A star, whose setting left behind, ah me ! 

how dark a night ! — 
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore ! 

The vines and flowers we planted, Love, I 

tend with anxious care, 
And yet they droop and fade away, as 

though they wanted air: 



ALBERT PIKE 



165 



They cannot live without thine eyes to feed 

them with their light; 
Since thy hands ceased to train them, Love, 
they cannot grow aright; — 
Thou art lost to them forever, Isadore ! 

Our little ones inquire of me, where is their 

mother gone : — 
What answer can I make to them, except 

with tears alone ? 
For if I say " To Heaven," then the poor 

things wish to learn 
How far it is, and where, and when their 

mother will return; — 
Thou art lost to them forever, Isadore ! 

Our happy home has now become a lonely, 
silent place; 

Like Heaven without its stars it is, with- 
out thy blessed face : 

Our little ones are still and sad; — none 
love them now but I, 

Except their mother's spirit, which I feel 
is always nigh; — 
Thou lovest us in Heaven, Isadore ! 

Their merry laugh is heard no more, they 
neither run nor play, 

But wander round like little ghosts, the 
long, long summer-day: 

The spider weaves his web across the win- 
dows at his will, 

The flowers I gathered for thee last are on 
the mantel still ; — 
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore ! 

Restless I pace our lonely rooms, I play 

our songs no more, 
The garish sun shines flauntingly upon the 

unswept floor; 
The mocking-bird still sits and sings, 

melancholy strain ! 
For my heart is like an autumn cloud that 

overflows with rain; 
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore ! 

Alas ! how changed is all, dear wife, from 
that sweet eve in spring. 

When first my love for thee was told, and 
thou to me didst cling, 

Thy sweet eyes radiant through their tears, 
pressing thy lips to mine. 

In our old arbor, Dear, beneath the over- 
arching vine ; — 
Those lips are cold forever, Isadore ! 



The moonlight struggled through the 
leaves, and fell upon thy face. 

So lovingly upturning there, with pure and 
trustful gaze ; 

The southern breezes murmured through 
the dark cloud of thy hair, 

As like a happy child thou didst in my 
arms nestle there ; — 
Death holds thee now forever, Isa- 
dore ! 

Thy love and faith so plighted then, with 

mingled smile and tear. 
Was never broken. Darling, while we dwelt 

together here: 
Nor bitter word, nor dark, cold look thou 

ever gavest me — 
Loving and trusting always, as I loved and 

worshipped thee ; — 
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore ! 

Thou wast my nurse in sickness, and my 

comforter in health. 
So gentle and so constant, when our love 

was all our wealth: 
Thy voice of music cheered me, Love, in 

each despondent hour. 
As Heaven's sweet honey-dew consoles the 

bruised and broken flower; — 
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore ! 

Thou art gone from me forever ; — I have 

lost thee, Isadore ! 
And desolate and lonely I shall be forever 

more : 
Our children hold me. Darling, or I to God 

should pray 
To let me cast the burthen of this long, 

dark life away. 
And see thy face in Heaven, Isadore ! 



DIXIE 

Southrons, hear your country call you I 
Up, lest worse than death befall you ! 
To arms ! To arms ! To arms, in Dixie ! 
Lo ! all the beacon-fires are lighted, — 
Let all hearts be now united ! 

To arms ! To arms ! To arms, in Dixie ! 

Advance the flag of Dixie ! 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! 

For Dixie's land we take our stand, 

And live or die for Dixie ! 



[66 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



To arras ! To arms ! 
And conquer peace for Dixie ! 

To arms ! To arms ! 
And conquer peace for Dixie ! 

Hear the Northern thunders mutter ! 
Northern flags in South winds flutter ! 
Send them back your fierce defiance ! 
Stamp upon the accursed alliance ! 

Fear no danger ! Shun no labor ! 
Lift up rifle, pike, and sabre ! 
Shoulder pressing close to shoulder, 
Let the odds make each heart bolder ! 

How the South's great heart rejoices 
At your cannons' ringing voices ! 
For faith betrayed, and pledges broken, 
Wrongs inflicted, insults spoken. 

Strong as lions, swift as eagles. 

Back to their kennels hunt these beagles ! 

Cut the unequal bonds asunder ! 

Let them hence each other plunder ! 



Swear upon your country's altar 
Never to submit or falter, 
Till the spoilers are defeated, 
Till the Lord's work is completed. 

Halt not till our Federation 
Secures among earth's powers its station ! 
Then at peace, and crowned with glory, 
Hear your children tell the story ! 

If the loved ones weep in sadness, 
Victory soon shall bring them gladness, — 

To arms ! 
Exultant pride soon banish sorrow, 
Smiles chase tears away to-morrow. 

To arms ! To arms ! To arms, in Disie 1 
Advance the flag of Dixie ! 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! 
For Dixie's land we take our stand, 
And live or die for Dixie ! 
To arms ! To arms ! 
And conquer peace for Dixie ! 

To arms ! To arms ! 
And conquer peace for Dixie I 



€f)cotiore ^^arher 



THE HIGHER GOOD 

Father, I will not ask for wealth or 
fame. 

Though once they would have joyed my 
carnal sense: 

I shudder not to bear a hated name, 

Wanting all wealth, myself my sole de- 
fence. 

But give me. Lord, eyes to behold the 
truth; 

A seeing sense that knows the eternal 
right; 

A heart with pity filled, and gentlest ruth; 

A manly faith that makes all darkness light: 

Give me the power to labor for mankind; 

Make me the mouth of such as cannot 
speak; 

Eyes let me be to groping men and blind; 

A conscience to the base; and to the weak 

Let me be hands and feet; and to the fool- 
ish, mind; 

And lead still further on such as thy king- 
dom seek. 



JESUS 

Jesus, there is no dearer name than 
thine 
Which Time has blazoned on his mighty 
scroll; 
No wreaths nor garlands ever did en- 
twine 
So fair a temple of so vast a soul. 

There every virtue set his triumph-seal; 

Wisdom, conjoined with strength and 
radiant grace. 
In a sweet copy Heaven to reveal, 

And stamp perfection on a mortal face. 

Once on the earth wert thou, before men's 
eyes. 
That did not half thy beauteous bright- 
ness see; 
E'en as the emmet does not read the 
skies. 
Nor our weak orbs look through im- 
mensity. 



THEODORE PARKER — ELIZABETH CLEMENTINE KINNEY 167 



<!BIi5aBetl) Clementine l^innep 



TO THE BOY 

WHO GOES DAILY PAST MY WINDOWS 
SINGING 

Thou happiest thing alive, 

Anomaly of earth ! 
If sound thy lineage give, 
Thou art the natural birth 

Of affluent Joy — 
Thy mother's name was Mirth, 
Thou little singing boy ! 

Thy star — it was a sun ! 

Thy time the month of May, 
When streams to music run, 
And birds sing all the day: 

Nature did tune 
Thy gushing voice by hers; 

A fount in June 
Not more the bosom stirs; 

A freshness flows 
Through every bubbling note, — 

Sure Nature knows 
The strains Art never wrote. 

Where was the human curse, 

When thou didst spring to life ? 
All feel it less, or worse, 
In pain, in care, in strife. 

Its dreadful word 
Fell from the lips of Truth; 

'T is but deferred, 
Unconscious youth ! 

That curse on thee 
Is sure some day to fall; 

Alas, more heavily 
If Manhood takes it all ! 

I will not think of this — 
It robs me of my part 
In thy outgushing bliss : 

No ! keep thy glad young heart 
Turned toward the sun ; — 
What yet shall be. 
None can foresee : 
One thing is sure — that thou hast well be- 
gun ! 

Meantime shall others share. 

Wild minstrel-boy. 
As I, to lighten care. 



The music of thy joy, — 

Like scents of flowers. 

Along life's wayside passed 

In dreary hours, — 
Too sweet to last; 

Like touches soft 
Of Nature, on those strings 

Within us, jarred so oft 
By earth's discordant things. 



THE QUAKERESS BRIDE 

No, not in the halls of the noble and proud. 

Where Fashion assembles her glittering 
crowd. 

Where all is in beauty and splendor ar- 
rayed, 

Were the nuptials performed of the meek 
Quaker maid. 

Nor yet in the temple those rites which 

she took, — 
By the altar, the mitre-crowned bishop 

and book, 
Where oft in her jewels stands proudly the 

bride, 
Unawed by those vows which through life 

shall abide. 

The building was humble, but sacred to 
One 

Who heeds the deep worship that utters 
no tone; 

Whose presence is not to the temple con- 
fined, 

But dwells with the contrite and lowly of 
mind. 

'T was there, all unveiled, save by modesty, 

stood 
The Quakeress bride, in her white satin 

hood: 
Her charms unadorned by the garland or 

gem. 
Yet fair as the lily just plucked from its 

stem. 

A tear glistened bright in her dark shaded 

eye. 
And her bosom half uttered a tremulous 

sigh. 



i68 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



As the hand she had pledged was confid- 
ingly given, 

And the low murmured words were re- 
corded in heaven. 

I 've been at the bridal where wealth spread 
the board, 

Where the sparkling red wine in rich gob- 
lets was poured; 

Where the priest in his surplice from ritual 
read. 

And the solemn response was impressively 
said. 

I 've seen the fond sire, in his thin locks of 
gray, 

Give the pride of his heart to the bride- 
groom away; 

While he brushed the big tear from his 
deep furrowed cheek. 

And bowed the assent which his lips might 
not speak. 

But in all the array of the costlier scene, 
Naught seemed to my eye so sincere in its 

mien. 
No language so fully the heart to resign, 
As the Quakeress bride's — " Until death 

I am thine I " 



THE BLIND PSALMIST 

He sang the airs of olden times 
In soft, low tones to sacred rhymes, 

Devotional, but quaint; 
His fingers touched the viol's strings, 
And at their gentle vibratings 
The glory of an angel's wings 

Hung o'er that aged saint ! 

His thin, white locks, like silver threads 
On which the sun its radiance sheds, 

Or like the moonlit snow, 
Seemed with a lustre half divine 
Around his saintly brow to shine. 
Till every scar, or time-worn line, 

Was gilded with its glow. 

His sightless balls to heaven upraised, 
As with the spirit's eyes he gazed 

On things invisible — 
Reflecting some celestial light — 
Were like a tranquil lake at night, 



On which two mirrored planets bright 
The concave's glory tell. 

Thus, while the patriarchal saint 
Devoutly sang to music quaint, 

I saw old Homer rise 
With buried centuries from the dead, 
The laurel green upon his head. 
As when the choir of bards he led, 

With rapt, but blinded eyes! 

And Scio's isle again looked green, 
As when the poet there was seen, 

And Greece was in her prime; 
While Poesy with epic fire 
Did once again the Bard inspire. 
As when he swept his mighty lyre 

To vibrate through all time. 

The vision changed to Albion's shore: 
I saw a sightless Bard once more 

From dust of ages rise ! 
I heard the harp and deathless song 
Of glorious Milton float along. 
Like warblings from the birds that throng 

His muse's Paradise ! 

And is it thus, when blindness brings 
A veil before all outer things, 

That visual spirits see 
A world within, than this more bright. 
Peopled with living forms of light, 
And strewed with gems, as stars of night 

Strew diamonds o'er the sea ? 

Then, reverend saint ! though old and 

blind. 
Thou with the quenchless orbs of mind 

Canst natural sight o'erreach; 
Upborne on Faith's triumphant vrings, 
Canst see unutterable things. 
Which only through thy viol's strings, 

And in thy songs, find speech. 



A DREAM 

'T WAS summer, and the spot a cool re- 
treat — 

Where curious eyes came not, nor footstep 
rude 

Disturbed the lovers' chosen solitude: 

Beneath an oak there was a mossy seat, 



MRS. KINNEY — FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD 



169 



Where we reclined, while birds above us 

wooed 
Their mates in songs voluptuously sweet. 
A limpid brook went murmuring by our 

feet, 
And all conspired to urge the tender 

mood. 
Methought I touched the streamlet with a 

flower, 
When from its bosom sprang a fountain 

clear, 
Falling again in the translucent shower 
Which made more green each blade of 

grass appear: 
"This stream's thy heart," I said; " Love's 

touch alone 
Can change it to the fount which maketh 

green my own." 



MOONLIGHT IN ITALY 

There 's not a breath the dewy leaves to 

stir; 
There 's not a cloud to spot the sapphire sky; 
All Nature seems a silent worshipper: 
While saintly Dian, with great, argent eye, 
Looks down as lucid from the depths on 

high 
As she to Earth were Heaven's interpreter; 
Each twinkling little star shrinks back, too 

shy 
Its lesser glory to obtrude by her 
Who fills the concave and the world with 

light; 
And ah ! the human spirit must unite 
In such a harmony of silent lays, 
Or be the only discord in this night. 
Which seems to pause for vocal lips to raise 
The sense of worship into uttered praise. 



f ranted ^^argent €)^gooti 



TO SLEEP 

Come to me, angel of the weary hearted ! 
Since they my loved ones, breathed upon 
by thee. 
Unto thy realms unreal have departed, 
I too may rest — even I : ah ! haste to 
me. 

I dare not bid thy darker, colder brother 

With bis more welcome offering appear, 
For those sweet lips at morn will murmur, 
" Mother," 
And who shall soothe them if I be not 
near ? 

Bring me no dream, dear Sleep, though 
visions glowing 
With hues of heaven thy wand enchanted 
shows ; 
I ask no glorious boon of thy bestowing, 
Save that most true, most beautiful, — 
repose. 

/ have no heart to roam in realms of Faery, 
To follow Fancy at her elfin call: 

I am too wretched — too soid-worn and 
weary ; 
Give me but rest, for rest to me is all. 



Paint not the Future to my fainting spirit. 
Though it were starred with glory like 
the skies; 
There is no gift immortals may inherit, 
That could rekindle hope in these cold 
eyes. 

And for the Past — the fearful Past — ah ! 

never 

Be Memory's downcast gaze unveiled by 

thee: 

Would thou couldst bring oblivion forever 

Of all that is, that has been, and will be ! 



A DANCING GIRL 

She comes — the spirit of the dance ! 

And but for those large, eloquent eyes. 
Where passion speaks in every glance, 

She 'd seem a wanderer from the skies. 

So light that, gazing breathless there. 
Lest the celestial dream should go. 

You 'd think the music in the air 
Waved the fair vision to and fro ! 

Or that the melody's sweet flow 

Within the radiant creature played, 



170 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



And those soft wreathing arms of snow 
And white sylph feet the music made. 

Now gliding slow with dreamy grace, 
Her eyes beneath their lashes lost, 

Now motionless, with lifted face. 

And small hands on her bosom crossed. 

And now with flashing eyes she springs, — 
Her whole bright figure raised in air, 

As if her soul had spread its wings 

And poised her one wild instant there ! 

She spoke not; but, so richly fraught 
With language are her glance and smile. 

That, when the curtain fell, I thought 
She had been talking all the while. 



ON SIVORI'S VIOLIN 

A dryad's home was once the tree 
From which they carved this wondrous toy. 
Who chanted lays of love and glee. 
Till every leaflet thrilled with joy. 

But when the tempest laid it low, 
The exiled fay flew to and fro; 
Till finding here her home once more, 
She warbles wildly as before ! 



CALUMNY 

A WHISPER woke the air, 
A soft, light tone, and low, 
Yet barbed with shame and woe. 

Ah ! might it only perish there, 
Nor farther go ! 

But no ! a quick and eager ear 

Caught up the little, meaning sound; 
Another voice has breathed it clear; 

And so it wandered round 
From ear to lip, from lip to ear, 
Until it reached a gentle heart 
That throbbed from all the world apart 
And that — it broke ! 



It was the only heart it found, — 
The only heart 't was meant to find, 

When first its accents woke. 
It reached that gentle heart at last, 

And that — it broke ! 



SONG 

Your heart is a music-box, dearest { 

With exquisite tunes at command, 
Of melody sweetest and clearest, 

If tried by a delicate hand; 
But its workmanship, love, is so fine. 

At a single rude touch it would break; 
Then, oh ! be the magic key mine, 

Its fairy-like whispers to wake. " 
And there 's one little tune it can play, 

That I fancy all others above, — 
You learned it of Cupid one day, — 

It begins with and ends with " I love ! " 
" I love ! " 

My heart echoes to it " I love ! " 



ON A DEAD POET 

The hand that swept the sounding lyre 

With more than mortal skill. 
The lightning eye, the heart of fire, 

The fervent lip are still ! 
No more, in rapture or in woe, 

With melody to thrill. 

Ah, nevermore ! 

But angel hands shall bring him balm 

For every grief he knew. 
And Heaven's soft harps his soul shall calm 

With music sweet and true, 
And teach to him the holy charm 

Of Israfel anew, 

For evermore ! 

Love's silver lyre he played so well 

Lies shattered on his tomb, 
But still in air its music-spell 

Floats on through light and gloom; 
And in the hearts where soft they fell, 

His words of beauty bloom 
Forevermore ! 



MRS. OSGOOD — A. B. STREET 



171 



%iitcti 25intngiSf Street 



THE SETTLER 

His echoing axe the settler swung 

Amid the sea-like solitude, 
And rushing, thundering, down were 
flung 

The Titans of the wood; 
Loud shrieked the eagle as he dashed 
From out his mossy nest, which crashed 

With its supporting bough, 
And the first sunlight, leaping, flashed 

On the wolf's haunt below. 

Rude was the garb, and strong the 
frame 

Of him who plied his ceaseless toil : 
To form that garb, the wild- wood game 

Contributed their spoil; 
The soul that warmed that frame dis- 
dained 
The tinsel, gaud, and glare, that reigned 

Where men their crowds collect; 
The simple fur, untrimmed, unstained, 

This forest-tamer decked. 

The paths which wound mid gorgeous 
trees, 

The streams whose bright lips kissed 
their flowers. 
The winds that swelled their harmonies 

Through those sun-hiding bowers, 
The temple vast — the green arcade, 
The nestling vale — the grassy glade, 

Dark cave and swampy lair, — 
These scenes and sounds majestic, made 

His world and pleasures, there. 

His roof adorned a lovely spot, 

Mid the black logs green glowed the 
grain, 
And herbs and plants the woods knew 
not 

Throve in the sun and rain. 
The smoke-wreath curling o'er the dell. 
The low — the bleat — the tinkling bell. 

All made a landscape strange, 
Which was the living chronicle 

Of deeds that wrought the change. 

The violet sprung at spring's ^rst tinge, 
The rose of summer spread its glow, 

The maize hung on its autumn fringe, 
Rude winter brought its snow; 



And still the settler labored there, 
His shout and whistle woke the air, 

As cheerily he plied 
His garden spade, or drove his share 

Along the hillock's side. 

He marked the fire-storm's blazing flood 

Roaring and crackling on its path. 
And scorching earth, and melting wood. 

Beneath its greedy wrath; 
He marked the rapid whirlwind shoot 
Trampling the pine-tree with its foot, 

And darkening thick the day 
With streaming bough and severed root, 

Hurled whizzing on its way. 

His gaunt hound yelled, his rifle flashed, 

The grim bear hushed its savage 
growl, 
In blood and foam the panther gnashed 

Its fangs, with dying howl; 
The fleet deer ceased its flying bound. 
Its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground, 

And with its moaning cry 
The beaver sank beneath the wound, 

Its pond-built Venice by. 

Humble the lot, yet his the race, 

When Liberty sent forth her cry. 
Who thronged in Conflict's deadliest 
place. 

To fight — to bleed — to die ! 
Who cumbered Bunker's height of red. 
By hope through weary years were led, 

And witnessed Yorktown's sun 
Blaze on a Nation's banner spread, 

A Nation's freedom won. 



THE LOON 

Tameless in his stately pride, along the 

lake of islands, 
Tireless speeds the lonely loon upon his 

diving track; — 
Emerald and gold emblazon, satin-like, his 

shoulder, 
Ebony and pearl inlay, mosaic-like, his 

back. 
Sailing, thus sailing, thus sails the brindled 

loon. 
When the wave rolls black with storm, or 

sleeps in summer noon. 



172 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Sailing through the islands, oft he lifts his 
loud bravura; — 
Clarion-clear it rings, and round ethereal 
trumpets swell; — 

Upward looks the feeding deer, he sees the 
aiming hunter. 
Up and then away, the loon has warned 
his comrade well. 

Sailing, thus sailing, thus sails the brindled 
loon, 

Pealing on the solitude his sounding bugle- 
tune. 

Sacred is the loon with eye of wild and 
flashing crimson; 
Eye that saw the Spirit Hah-wen-ne-yo 
through the air 

Falling, faint a star — a shaft of light — a 
shape of splendor, — 
Falling on the deep that closed that shin- 
ing shape to bear. 

Sailing, thus sailing, thus sailed the brin- 
dled loon, 

With the grand shape falling, all a-glitter 
from the moon. 



Long before the eagle furls his pinion on 
the pine-top. 
Long before the blue-bird gleams in sap- 
phire through the glen. 

Long before the lily blots the shoal with 
golden apples. 
Leaves the loon his southern sun to sail 
the lake again. 

Sailing, then sailing, then sails the brindled 
loon, 

Leading with his shouting call the Spring's 
awakening croon. 

Long after bitter chills have pierced the 
■windy water, 
Long after Autumn dies all dolphin-like 
away; 
Long after coat of russet dons the deer 
for winter. 
Plies the solitary loon his cold and cur- 
dled bay. 
Sailing, there sailing, there sails the brin- 
dled loon. 
Till in chains no more to him the lake 
yields watery boon. 



€|jri^topl)ct ^car^e €vmt^ 



THE BOBOLINKS 

When Nature had made all her birds, 
With no more cares to think on, 

She gave a rippling laugh, and out 
There flew a Bobolinkon, 

She laughed again; out flew a mate; 

A breeze of Eden bore them 
Across the fields of Paradise, 

The sunrise reddening o'er them. 

Incarnate sport and holiday. 

They flew and sang forever; 
Their souls through June were all in tune. 

Their wings were weary never. 

Their tribe, still drunk with air and light, 

And perfume of the meadow. 
Go reeling up and down the sky, 

In sunshine and in shadow. 

One springs from out the dew-wet grass; 
Another follows after; 



The morn is thrilling with their songs 
And peals of fairy laughter. 

From out the marshes and the brook, 
They set the tall reeds swinging. 

And meet and frolic in the air, 
Half prattling and half singing. 

When morning winds sweep meadow- 
lands 

In green and russet billows. 
And toss the lonely elm-tree's boughs, 

And silver all the willows, 

I see you buffeting the breeze, 

Or with its motion swaying, 
Your notes half drowned against the 
wind. 

Or down the current playing. 

When far avJfey o'er grassy flats, 
Where the thick wood commences, 

The white-sleeved mowers look like specks 
Beyond the zigzag fences, 



CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH — JONES VERY 173 



And noon is hot, and barn-roofs gleam 
White in the pale blue distance, 

I hear the saucy minstrels still 
In chattering persistence. 

When Eve her domes of opal fire 
Piles round the blue horizon, 

Or thunder rolls from hill to hill 
A Kyrie Eleison, 

Still merriest of the merry^birds, 
Your sparkle is unfading, — 

Pied harlequins of June, — no end 
Of song and masquerading. 

What cadences of bubbling mirth. 

Too quick for bar and rhythm ! 
What ecstasies, too full to keep 

Coherent measure with them ! 

O could I share, without champagne 

Or muscadel, your frolic, 
The glad delirium of your joy, 

Your fun unapostolic, 

Your drunken jargon through the fields, 

Your bobolinkish gabble, 
Your fine Anacreontic glee. 

Your tipsy reveller's babble ! 

Nay, let me not profane such joy 

With similes of folly; 
No wine of earth could waken songs 

So delicately jolly ! 

O boundless self-contentment, voiced 

In flying air-born bubbles ! 
O joy that mocks our sad unrest, 

And drowns our earth-born troubles ! 

Hope springs with you: I dread uo more 
Despondency and dulness; 



For Good Supreme can never fail 
That gives such perfect fulness. 

The life that floods the happy fields 
With song and light and color 

Will shape our lives to richer states, 
And heap our measures fuller. 



STANZA FROM AN EARLY 
POEM 

Thought is deeper than all speech, 
Feeling deeper than all thought; 

Souls to souls can never teach 

What unto themselves was taught. 



THE PINES AND THE SEA 

Beyond the low marsh-meadows and the 
beach. 

Seen through the hoary trunks of windy 
pines, 

The long blue level of the ocean shines. 

The distant surf, with hoarse, complaining 
speech, 

Out from its sandy barrier seems to reach; 

And while the sun behind the woods de- 
clines. 

The moaning sea with sighing boughs com- 
bines. 

And waves and pines make answer, each 
to each. 

O melancholy soul, whom far and near. 

In life, faith, hope, the same sad undertone 

Pursues from thought to thought ! thou 
needs must hear 

An old refrain, too much, too long thine 
own: 

'Tis thy mortality infects thine ear; 

The mournful strain was in thyself alone. 



Slonc^ Fcrp 



THE IDLER 

1 IDLE stand that I may find employ. 
Such as my Master when He comes will 

give; 
I cannot find in mine own work my joy, 
But wait, although in waiting I must live; 



My body shall not turn which way it will, 
But stand till I the appointed road can find, 
And journeying so his messages fulfil. 
And do at every step the work designed. 
Enough for me, still day by day to wait 
Till Thou who formest me findest me too 
a task, 



174 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD— DIVISION II 



A cripple lying at the rich man's gate, 
Content for the few crumbs I get to 

ask, 
A laborer but in heart, while bound my 

hands 
Hang idly down still waiting thy commands. 

THE NEW WORLD 

The night that has no star lit up by 

God, 
The day that round men shines who still 

are blind, 
The earth their grave-turned feet for ages 

trod, 
And sea swept over by His mighty wind, — 
All these have passed away, the melting 

dream 
That flitted o'er the sleeper's half-shut 

eye. 
When touched by morning's golden-darting 

beam; 
And he beholds around the earth and 

sky 
That ever real stands, the rolling shores 
And heaving billows of the boundless 

main, 
That show, though time is past, no trace 

of years. 
And earth restored he sees as his again, 
The earth that fades not and the heavens 

that stand, 
Their strong foundations laid by God's right 
hand. 



THE OLD ROAD 

The road is left that once was trod 
By man and heavy-laden beast; 
And new ways opened, iron-shod, 
That bind the land from west to east. 

I asked of Him who all things knows 
Why none who lived now passed that 

way: 
Where rose the dust the grass now grows ? 
A still, low voice was heard to say, — 

" Thou knowest not why I change the 

course 
Of him who travels : learn to go, 
Obey the Spirit's gentle force. 
Nor ask thou where the stream may flow. 



" Man shall not walk in his own ways, 
For he is blind and cannot see; 
But let him trust, and lengthened days 
Shall lead his feet to heaven and Me. 

" Then shall the grass the path grow o'er, 
That his own wilfulness has trod; 
And man nor beast shall pass it more, 
But he shall walk with Me, his God." 



' YOURSELF 

'T IS to yourself I speak ; you cannot know 
Him whom I call in speaking such a one, 
For you beneath the earth lie buried low, 
Which he, alone, as living walks upon. 
You may at times have heard him speak to 

you, 
And often wished perchance that you were 

he; 
And I must ever wish that it were true. 
For then you could hold fellowship with 

me: 
But now you hear us talk as strangers, 

met 
Above the room wherein you lie abed; 
A word perhaps loud spoken you may 

get. 
Or hear our feet when heavily they tread; 
But he who speaks, or he who 's spoken 

to, 
Must both remain as strangers still to you. 



THE DEAD 

I SEE them, — crowd on crowd they walk 

the earth, 
Dry leafless trees no autumn wind laid bare ; 
And in their nakedness find cause for mirth, 
And all unclad would winter's rudeness 

dare ; 
No sap doth through their clattering 

branches flow. 
Whence springing leaves and blossoms 

bright appear: 
Their hearts the living God have ceased to 

know 
Who gives the springtime to the expectant 

year. 
They mimic life, as if from Him to steal 
His glow of health to paint the livid cheek; 
They borrow words for thoughts they can- 
not feel, 



JONES VERY — HENRY BECK HIRST 



175 



That with a seeming heart their tongue 

may speak; 
And in their show of life more dead they 

live 
Than those that to the earth with many 

tears they give. 



THE GIFTS OF GOD 

The light that fills thy house at morn, 
Thou canst not for thyself retain; 
But all who with thee here are born, 
It bids to share an equal gain. 



The wind that blows thy ship along. 
Her swelling sails cannot confine; 
Alike to all the gales belong, 
Nor canst thou claim a breath as thine. 

The earth, the green out-spreading earth, 
Why hast thou fenced it off from me ? 
Hadst thou than I a nobler birth, 
Who callest thine a gift so free ? 

The wave, the blue encircling wave, 
No chains can bind, no fetters hold; 
Its thunders tell of Him who gave 
What none can ever buy for gold. . 



j^cnrp ^ttk ^it0t 



THE FRINGILLA MELODIA 

Happy Song-sparrow, that on woodland 
side 
Or by the meadow sits, and ceaseless 
sings 
His mellow roundelay in russet pride, 
Owning no care between his wings. 

He has no tax to pay, nor work to do: 
His round of life is ever a pleasant 
one; 
For they are merry that may naught but 
woo 
From yellow dawn till set of sun. 

The verdant fields, the riverside, the 
road. 
The cottage garden, and the orchard 
green. 
When Spring with breezy footstep stirs 
abroad, 
His modest mottled form have seen. 

The cedar at the cottage door contains 
His nest ; the lilac by the walk as 
well, 
From whence arise his silver-swelling 
strains. 
That echo loudly down the dell. 

And when at dewy eve the farmer lies 
Before his door, his children all around, 

From twig to twig the simple sparrow 
flies, 
Frightened to hear their laughter's sound. 



Or when the farm-boy with his shining 
spade, 
Freshening the mould around the garden 
flowers. 
Disturbs him, timid but not yet afraid, 
He chirps about him there for hours. 

And when, his labor o'er, the urchin leaves 
The haunted spot, he seeks some lofty 
spray. 
And there with ruffled throat, delighted, 
weaves. 
Gushing with joy, his lovely lay. 

Perchance, his nest discovered, children 
come. 
And peer, with curious eyes, where lie 
the young 
And callow brood, and then, with ceaseless 
hum. 
He, shrew-like, scolds with double 
tongue. 

A little while, and on the gravelled walk 
The nestlings hop, or peer between the 
grass, 
While he sits watching on some blossom 
stalk, 
Lest danger might toward them pass. 

He sees the cat with stealthy step, and form 
Pressed closely to the ground, come 
creeping through 
The whitewashed fence, and with a loud 
alarm 
He flies; and they — they swift pursue. 



176 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



So passes Summer; and when Autumn 


And gazing down in pride 


treads 


On the spectres as they glide 


With sober step the yellowing woods and 


Through the valley long and wide, — 


vales, 


On the spectres all so pale 


A mellower song the gentle sparrow sheds 


In vestments whiter than the snow, 


From orchard tree or garden pales. 


As through the dim defile they go 




With melancholy wail. 


And, as the nights grow cold and woodlands 




dim. 


On tramps the funeral file; and now 


He seeks, with many a kin, a warmer 


The weeping ones have passed, 


clime, 


A throng succeeding, loftier 


And perching there, along some river's 


And statelier than the last, — 


rim. 


The Monarchs of the Past ! 


Fills up with song the solemn time. 


And upon the solemn blast. 




Wave their plumes and pennons high, 


But, with the sun of March, his little 


And loud their mournful marches 


soul, 


sweep 


Warm with the love of home, impels him 


Up from the valley dark and deep 


where. 


To the over-arching sky. 


In bygone hours, he owned love's sweet 




control ; 


And now the Cycle-buried years 


And soon he breathes his native air. 


Stride on in stern array: 




Before each band the Centuries, 


And then again his merry song rings out, 


With beards of silver gray. 


And meadow, orchard, valley, wood, and 


The Marshals of the Day, 


plain 


In silence pass away; 


Ring with his bridal notes, that seem to 


And behind them come the Hours 


flout 


And Minutes, who, as on they go, 


Dull echo with their silver strain. 


Are swinging steadily to and fro 




The incense round in showers. 


And so his round of life runs ever on: 




Happy, contented, in his humble sphere 


Behold the bier, — the ebony bier, — 


He lives, loves, sings, and, when the day 


On sinewy shoulders borne, 


is gone, 


Of many a dim, forgotten Year 


Slumbers and dreams, devoid of fear. 


From Primal Times forlorn. 




All weary and all worn. 




With their ancient garments torn 




And their beards as white as Lear's, 


THE FUNERAL OF TIME 1 


Lo ! how they tremble as they 




tread. 


Lo ! through a shadowy valley 


Mourning above the marble dead, 


March with measured step and tread 


In agonies of tears ! 


A long array of Phantoms wan 




And pallid as the dead, — 


How very wan the old man looks ! 


The white and waxen dead ! 


As wasted and as pale 


With a crown on every head. 


As some dim ghost of shadowy days 


And a torch in every hand 


In legendary tale. 


To fright the sheeted ghosts away 


God give the sleeper hail ! 


That guard its portals night and day, 


And the world hath much to wail 


They seek the Shadow-Land. 


That his ears no more may hear; 




For, with his palms across his 


On as the pale procession stalks. 


breast. 


The clouds around divide, 


He lieth in eternal rest 


Raising themselves in giant shapes. 


Along his stately bier. 



1 See Biographical Note, p. 799, 



HENRY BECK HIRST— EPES SARGENT 



177 



How thin Lis hair ! How white his beard ! 


'Neath a lurid comet's glare, 


How waxen-like his hands, 


That over the mourners' plumed 


Which nevermore may turn the glass 


heads 


That on his bosom stands, — 


And on the Dead a lustre sheds 


The glass whose solemn sands 


From its crimson floating hair ! 


Were won from Stygian strands ! 




For his weary work is done, 


The rites are read,* the requiem sung: 


And he has reaped his latest 


And as the echoes die, 


field, 


The Shadow Chaos rises 


And none that scythe of his can 


With a wild unearthly cry, — 


wield 


A giant, to the sky ! 


'Neath the dim, descending sun. 


His arms outstretched on high 




Over Time that dead doth lie; 


At last they reach the Shadow-Land, 


And with a voice that shakes the 


And with an eldritch cry 


spheres. 


The guardian ghost sweeps wailingly 


He shouts to the mourners mad with 


Athwart the troubled sky. 


fears, 


Like meteors flashing by. 


" Depart ! Lo ! here am I ! " 


As asunder crashing fly, 




With a wild and clangorous din, 


Down, showering fire, the comet sweeps; 


The gates before the funeral train, 


Shivering the pillars fall; 


Filing along the dreary plain 


And lightning-like the red flames rush, 


And marching slowly in. 


A whirlwind, over all ! 




And Silence spreads her pall, 


Lo ! 't is a temple ! and around 


Like pinions over the hall. 


Tall ebony columns rise 


Over the temple overthrown, 


Up from the withering earth, and bear 


Over the dying and the unburied 


Aloft the shrivelling skies. 


dead; 


Where the tempest trembling sighs, 


And, with a heavily-drooping head. 


And the ghostly moonlight dies 


Sits, statue-like, alone ! 



€pe0 if>argcnt 



A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE 

A LIFE on the oceaii wave, 

A home on the roUiug deep. 
Where the scattered waters rave. 

And the winds their revels keep ! 
Like an eagle caged, I pine 

On this dull, unchanging shore: 
Oh ! give me the flashing brine. 

The spray and the tempest's roar ! 

Once more on the deck I stand 

Of my own swift-gliding craft: 
Set sail ! farewell to the land ! 

The gale follows fair abaft. 
We shoot through the sparkling foam 

Like an ocean-bird set free ; — 
Like the ocean-bird, our home 

We '11 find far out on the sea. 



The land is no longer in view. 

The clouds have begun to frown; 
But with a stout vessel and crew. 

We '11 say. Let the storm come down ! 
And the song of our hearts shall be, 

While the winds and the waters rave, 
A home on the rolling sea ! 

A life on the ocean wave ! 



THE HEART'S SUMMER 

The cold blast at the casement beats; 

The window-panes are white; 
The snow whirls through the empty streets; 

It is a dreary night ! 
Sit down, old friend, the wine-cups wait; 

Fill to o'erflowing, fill ! 



lyS 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Though winter howleth at the gate, 
In our hearts 't is summer still ! 

For we full many summer joys 

And greenwood sports have shared, 
When, free and ever-roving boys, 

The rocks, the streams, we dared; 
And, as I looked upon thy face, 

Back, back o'er years of ill. 
My heart flies to that happy place. 

Where it is summer still. 

Yes, though like sere leaves on the 
ground, 
Our early hopes are strown. 



And cherished flowers lie dead around, 
And singing birds are flown. 

The verdure is not faded quite. 
Not mute all tones that thrill; 

And seeing, hearing thee to-night, 
In my heart 't is summer still. 

Fill up ! The olden times come back 

With light and life once more; 
We scan the Future's sunny track 

From Youth's enchanted shore; 
The lost return: through fields of bloom 

We wander at our will; 
Gone is the winter's angry gloom, — 

In our hearts 't is summer still. 



iiloBcrt €raiU ^pence HohjeH 



THE BRAVE OLD SHIP, THE 
ORIENT 

Woe for the brave ship Orient ! 

Woe for the old ship Orient ! 

For in broad, broad light, and with land in 

sight, 
Where the waters bubbled white. 
One great sharp shriek ! One shudder of 

affright ! — 
And — 

down went the brave old ship, the 

Orient ! 

It was the fairest day in the merry month 

of May, 
And sleepiness had settled on the seas; 
And we had our white sail set, high up, and 

higher yet. 
And our flag flashed and fluttered at its 

ease; 
The cross of St. George, that in mountain 

and in gorge, — 
On the hot and dusty plain, — 
On the tiresome, trackless main, — 
Conquering out, — conquering home 

again, — 
Had flamed, the world over, on the breeze. 
Ours was the far-famed Albion, 
And she had her best look of might and 

beauty on, 
As she swept across the seas that day. 
The wind was fair and soft, both alow and 

aloft. 
And we wore the even hours away. 



The steadying sun heaved up as day drew 
on. 

And there grew a long swell of the sea. 

And, first in upper air, then under, every- 
where. 

From the topmost towering sail 

Down, down to quarter-rail. 

The wind began to breathe more free. 

It was soon to breathe its last, 

For a wild and bitter blast 

Was the master of that stormy day to be. 

" Ho ! Hilloa ! A sail ! " was the top- 
man's hail: 

* ' A sail, hull-down upon our lee ! " 

Then with sea-glass to his eye. 

And his gray locks blowing by. 

The Admiral sought what she might be. 

And from top, and from deck, 

Was it ship ? Was it wreck ? A far-off, 
far-off speck. 

Of a sudden we found upon our lee. 

On the round waters wide, floated no thing 

beside, 
But we and the stranger sail; 
And a hazy sky, that threatened storm. 
Came coating the heaven so blue and warm, 
And ahead hung the portent of a gale: 
A black bank hanging there 
When the order came, to wear, 
Was remembered, ever after, in the tale. 

Across the long, slow swell 
That scarcely rose and fell, 



ROBERT TRAILL SPENCE LOWELL 



179 



The wind began to blow out of the cloud; 

And scarce an hour was gone ere the gale 
was fairly on, 

And through our strained rigging howled 
aloud. 

Before the stormy wind, that was madden- 
ing behind, 

We gathered in our canvas farthest spread. 

Black clouds had started out 

From the heavens all about, 

And the welkin grew all black overhead. 

But though stronger and more strong 

The fierce gale rushed along, 

The stranger brought her old wind in her 
breast. 

Up came the ship from the far-off sea 

And on with the strong wind's breath rushed 
we. 

She grew to the eye, against the clouded 

sky, 

And eagerly her points and gear we guessed. 

As we made her out, at last. 

She was maimed in spar and mast 

And she hugged the easy breeze for rest. 

We could see the old wind fail 

At the neariug of our gale; 

We could see them lay their course with 

the wind: 
Still we neared and neared her fast, 
Hurled on by our fierce blast. 
With the seas tumbling headlong behind. 
She had come out of some storm, and, in 

many a busy swarm. 
Her crew were refitting, as they might, 
The wreck of upper spars 
That had left their ugly scars. 
As if the ship had come out of a fight. 
We scanned her well, as we drifted by, — 
A strange old ship, with her poop built 

high. 
And with quarter-galleries wide. 
And a huge beaked prow, as no ships are 

builded now, 
And carvings all strange, beside. 
A Byzantine bark, and a ship of name and 

mark 
Long years and generations ago ; 
Ere any mast or yard of ours was growing 

hard 
With the seasoning of long Norwegian 

snow. 
She was the brave old Orient, 
The old imperial Orient, 
Brought down from times afar, 



Not such as our ships are. 

But unchanged in hull and unchanged in 

spar. 
Since mighty ships of war were builded so. 

Down her old black side poured the water 

in a tide, 
As they toiled to get the better of a leak. 
We had got a signal set in the shrouds, 
And our men through the storm looked on 

in crowds : — 
But for wind, we were near enough to 

speak. 
It seemed her sea and sky Avere in times 

long, long gone by. 
That we read in winter-evens about; 
As if to other stars 
She had reared her old-world spars. 
And her hull had kept an old-time ocean 

out. 
We saw no signal fly, and her men scarce 

lifted eye, 
But toiled at the work that was to do: 
It warmed our English blood 
When across the stormy flood 
We saw the old ship and her crew. 
The glories and the memories of other days 

agone 
Seemed clinging to the old ship, as in 

storm she labored on. 
The old ship Orient ! 
The brave, imperial Orient ! 

All that stormy night through, our ship was 

lying-to 
Whenever we could keep her to the wind; 
But late in the next day we gained a quiet 

bay. 
For the tempest had left us far behind. 
So before the sunny town 
Went our anchors splashing down; 
Our sails we hung all out to the sun; 
While airs from off the steep 
Came playing at bo-peep 
With our canvas, hour by hour, in their fun. 
We leaned on boom or rail with many a 

lazy tale 
Of the work of the storm that had died; 
And watched, with idle eyes. 
Our floats, like summer flies. 
Riding lazily about the ship's side. 
Suddenly they cried, from the other deck, 
That the Orient was gone to wreck ! 
That her hull lay high on a broken shore. 
And the brave old ship would float no more. 



i8o 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



But we heard a sadder tale, ere the night 
came on, 

And a truer tale, of the ship that was gone. 

They had seen from the height. 

As she came from yester-night. 

While the storm had not gone by, and the 
sea was running high, 

A ship driving heavily to land; 

A strange great ship (so she seemed to be 

While she tumbled and rolled on the far- 
off sea. 

And strange when she toiled, near at hand). 

But some ship of mark and fame, 

Though crippled, then, and lame, 

And that must have been gallantly manned. 

So she came, driving fast; 

They could tell her men, at last; 

There were harbors down the coast on her 
lee; 

When, strangely, she broached to, — 

Then, with her gallant crew, 

Went headlong down into the sea. 

That was the Orient, 

The brave old Orient j^ — 

Such a ship as nevermore will be. 



THE AFTER-COMERS 

Ex nolo fictum carmen 

licuit semperque licebit 

signatum prsesente nota producere [carmen]. 

HoR. A. P. 240, 58, 59. 

Those earlier men that owned our earth 
When land and sea and skies were newer, 
Had they, by eldest's right of birth. 
Sea stronger, greener land, sky bluer ? 
Had what they sang and drew more worth 
That bards and painters then were fewer ? 

Their daisy, oak and rose were new; 
Fresh runnels down their valleys babbled; 



New were red lip, true eyes, fresh dew; 
All dells, all shores, had not been rabbled; 
Nor yet the rhyming lovers' crew 
Tree-bark and casement-pane had scrab- 
bled. 

Feelings sprang fresh, to them, and thought; 
Fresh things were hope, trust, faith, en- 
deavor; 
All things were new, wherein men wrought, 
And so they had the lead, forever. 
To move the world their frank hearts sought 
Not even where to set their lever. 

Then utterance, like thought, was young, 
And, when these yearning two were mated, 
What shapes of airy life were flung 
Before the world as yet unsated ! 
Life was in hand; life was in tongue; 
Life in whatever they created. 

Must then the world to us be stale ? 
Must we be only after-comers ? 
Must wilted green and sunshine pale 
Make mean all our dear springs and sum- 
mers? 
To those free lords of song and tale 
Must we be only tricked-out mummers ? 

Oh, no ! was ever life-blood cold ? ' 

Was wit e'er dull, when mirth was in it ? 
Or when will blushing love be old ? 
Or thrill of bobolink or linnet ? 
Are all our blossoms touched with mould ? 
Lurks not fresh bloom where we may win 
it? 

Yes ! Life and strength forever can ; 
Life springs afresh through endless ages; 
Nor on our true work falls a ban. 
That it must halt, at shortened stages: 
Throw man into it ! man draws man 
In canvas, stone, or written pages. 



f$et\tp ^tttt^m^ 



FROM AN "ODE FOR DECORA- 
TION DAY" 

GALLANT brothers of the generous South, 
Foes for a day and brothers for all 
time! 



I charge you by the memories of our 

youth. 
By Yorktown's field and Montezuma's 

clime. 
Hold our dead sacred — let them quietly 

rest > 



1 See BioeEAPHicAL Note, p. 815. 



HENRY PETERSON — JAMES THOMAS FIELDS 



In your unnumbered vales, where God 

thought best. 
Your vines and flowers learned long since 

to forgive, 
And o'er their graves a broidered mantle 

weave : 
Be you as kind as they are, and the word 
Shall reach the Northland with each sum- 
mer bird, 
And thoughts as sweet as summer shall 

awake 
Responsive to your kindness, and shall make 
Our peace the peace of brothers once again, 
And banish utterly the days of pain. 

And ye, O Northmen ! be ye not outdone 

In generous thought and deed. 
We all do need forgiveness, every one; 
And they that give shall find it in their 

need. 
Spare of your flowers to deck the stranger's 

grave, 
Who died for a lost cause : — 
A soul more daring, resolute, and brave, 

Ne'er won a world's applause. 
A brave man's hatred pauses at the tomb. 
For hiili some Southern home was robed in 

gloom, 
Some wife or mother looked with longing 

eyes 
Through the sad days and nights with tears 

and sighs, 
Hope slowly hardening into gaunt Despair. 
Then let your f oeman's grave remembrance 

share : 
Pity a higher charm to Valor lends, 
And in the realms of Sorrow all are friends. 



RINALDO 

Bring me a cup of good red wine 

To drink before I die ; 
Though earthly joys I must resign, 

I '11 breathe no earthly sigh. 



I 've lived a bold and robber life, 

I 've had on earth my way, 
For with the gun or with the knife, 

I made mankind obey. 

My mother's name, my father's race, 
Though he was false, she true. 

It matters not — they sleep in peace. 
What more can I or you ? 

They sleep in peace, though swords flashed 
wild 

Arouud my infant head. 
And I was left an orphan child, 

An outcast's path to tread. 

Men are but grapes upon the vine ; 

My vine was planted where 
Nor hand did tend, nor warm sun shine, 

And mildew filled the air. 

I was a robber brave and bold. 

I did not, in the mart. 
Lie, cheat, and steal with purpose cold. 

Mine was too frank a heart. 

All men are robbers, — all who win, 

And get more than their due; 
Though solemn phrases veil the sin, 

The thief's eye glances through. 

The world denied me gold and land, 
And love which all men crave; 

I took the first with strong right hand, 
The last I left a slave. 

And though the tiger 's caged at length, — 
Who made him such God knows, — 

He can but fail who measures strength 
Against a world of foes. 

Then bring a cup of rich red wine 

Before the bell tolls three. 
For better men than I and mine 

Have died upon the tree. 



3[anic-6f €ftoma^ ficltr^ 



WITH WORDSWORTH AT RYDAL 

The grass hung wet on Rydal banks. 
The golden day with pearls adorning, 
When side by side with him we walked 
To meet midway the summer morning. 



The west wind took a softer breath, 
The sun himself seemed brighter shin- 
ing. 
As through the porch the minstrel stepped. 
His eye sweet Nature's look enshrin- 



l82 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



He passed along the dewy sward, 
The linnet sang aloft, " Good morrow ! " 
He plucked a bud, the flower awoke 
And smiled without one pang of sorrow. 

He spoke of all that graced the scene 
In tones that fell like music round us; 
We felt the charm descend, nor strove 
To break the rapturous spell that bound 
us. 

We listened with mysterious awe, 
Strange feeling mingling with our plea- 
sure; 
We heard that day prophetic words, — 
High thoughts the heart must always 
treasure. 

Great Nature's Priest ! thy calm career. 
Since that sweet morn, on earth has 

ended ; 
But who shall say thy mission died 
When, winged for heaven, thy soul as- 
cended ? 



COMMON SENSE 

She came among the gathering crowd, 
A maiden fair, without pretence. 
And when they asked her humble name, 
She whispered mildly, " Common Sense." 

Her modest garb drew every eye, 
Her ample cloak, her shoes of leather; 
And, when they sneered, she simply said, 
" I dress according to the weather." 

They argued long, and reasoned loud, 
In dubious Hindoo phrase mysterious. 
While she, poor child, could not divine 
Why girls so young should be so serious. 

They knew the length of Plato's beard, 
And how the scholars wrote in Saturn ; 
She studied authors not so deep, 
And took the Bible for her pattern. 

And so she said,- " Excuse me, friends, 
I find all have their proper places, 
And Common Sense should stay at home 
With cheerful hearts and smiling faces." 



J^enrp SDatjiti Cfjoreau 



INSPIRATION 

If with light head erect I sing. 

Though all the Muses lend their force, 

From my poor love of anything, 

The verse is weak and shallow as its source. 

But if with bended neck I grope 

Listening behind me for my wit. 

With faith superior to hope, 

More anxious to keep back than forward it, — 

Making my soul accomplice there 
Unto the flame my heart hath lit, 
Then will the verse forever wear, — 
Time cannot bend the line which God has 
writ. 

I hearing get, who had but ears, 
And sight, who had but eyes before; 
I moments live, who lived but years. 
And truth discern, who knew but learning's 
lore. 



Now chiefly is my natal hour. 

And only now my prime of life; 

Of manhood's strength it is the flower, 

'T is peace's end, and war's beginning strife. 

It comes in summer's broadest noon, 
By a gray wall, or some chance place, 
Unseasoning time, insulting June, 
And Texing day with its presuming face. 

I will not doubt the love untold 
Which not my worth nor want hath bought, 
Which wooed me young, and wooes me old. 
And to this evening hath me brought. 



THE FISHER'S BOY 

My life is like a stroll upon the beach. 
As near the ocean's edge as I can go; 

My tardy steps its waves sometimes o'er- 
reach. 
Sometimes I stay to let them overflow. 



HENRY DAVID THOREAU— MRS. JUDSON 



183 



My sole employment is, and scrupulous care, 

To place my gains beyond the reach of 

tides, — 

Each smoother pebble, and each shell more 

rare, 

Which Ocean kindly to my hand confides. 

I have but few companions on the shore : 
They scorn the strand who sail upon the 
sea; 

Yet oft I think the ocean they 've sailed o'er 
Is deeper known upon the strand to me. 

The middle sea contains no crimson dulse, 
Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to 
view; 
Along the shore my hand is on its pulse, 
And I converse with many a shipwrecked 
crew. 

SMOKE 

Light-winged Smoke ! Icarian bird, 
Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight; 
Lark without song, and messenger of dawn, 
Circling above the hamlets as thy nest; 



Or else, departing dream, and shadowy 

form 
Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts ; 
By night star-veiling, and by day 
Darkening the light and blotting out the 

sun; 
Go thou, my incense, upward from this 

hearth, 
And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame^ 



MIST 

Low-anchored cloud, 
Newfoundland air, 
Fountain-head and source of rivers, 
Dew-cloth, dream-drapery, 
And napkin spread by fays; 
Drifting meadow of the air, 
Where bloom the daisied banks and vio- 
lets. 
And in whose fenny labyrinth 
The bittern booms and heron wades; 
Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers, — 
Bear only perfumes and the scent 
Of healing herbs to just men's fields. 



€milp Cj)ubbuc{i 3"ti^cn 



WATCHING 

Sleep, love, sleep ! 

The dusty day is done. 

Lo ! from afar the freshening breezes sweep 

Wide over groves of balm, 

Down from the towering palm, 

In at the open casement cooling run, 

And round thy lowly bed. 

Thy bed of pain, 

Bathing thy patient head. 

Like grateful showers of rain. 

They come; 

While the white curtains, waving to and 

fro, 
Fan the sick air; 

And pitying the shadows come and go, 
With gentle human care. 
Compassionate and dumb. 

The dusty day is done, 
The night begun; 



While prayerful watch I keep. 

Sleep, love, sleep ! 

Is there no magic in the touch 

Of fingers thou dost love so much ? 

Fain would they scatter poppies o'er thee 

now; 
Or, with its mute caress. 
The tremidous lip some soft nepenthe 

press 
Upon thy weary lid and aching brow; 
While prayerful watch I keep, 
Sleep, love, sleep ! 

On the pagoda spire 

The bells are swinging, 

Their little golden circlet in a flutter 

With tales the wooing winds have dared to 

utter 
Till all are ringing, 
As if a choir 
Of golden-nested birds in heaven were sing 

ing; 



i84 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



And with a lulling sound 

The music floats around, 

And drops like balm into the drowsy ear; 

Commingling with the hum 

Of the Sepoy's distant drum, 

And lazy beetle ever droning near. 

Sounds these of deepest silence born, 

Like night made visible by morn; 

So silent that I sometimes start 

To hear the throbbings of my heart, 

And watch, with shivering sense of pain, 

To see thy pale lids lift again. 

The lizard, with his mouse-like eyes, 
Peeps from the mortise in surprise 
At such strange quiet after day's harsh din ; 
Then boldly ventures out, 
And looks about, 
And with his hollow feet 
Treads his small evening beat. 
Darting upon his prey 
In such a tricky, winsome sort of way. 
His delicate marauding seems no sin. 
And still the curtains swing. 
But noiselessly; 

The bells a melancholy murmur ring. 
And tears were in the sky: 
More heavily the shadows fall. 
Like the black foldings of a pall 
Where juts the rough beam from the wall; 
The candles flare 
With fresher gusts of air; 
The beetle's drone 

Turns to a dirge-like, solitary moan; 
Night deepens, and I sit in cheerless doubt, 
alone. 



MY BIRD 

Eke last year's moon had left the sky, 
A birdling sought my Indian nest. 

And folded, O, so lovingly, 

Her tiny wings upon my breast. 

From morn till evening's purple tinge. 
In winsome helplessness she lies, 

Two rose-leaves, with a silken fringe. 
Shut softly on her starry eyes. 

There 's not in Ind a lovelier bird ; 

Broad earth owns not a happier nest; 
O God, thou hast a fountain stirred, 

Whose waters nevermore shall rest ! 

This beautiful, mysterious thing, 
This seeming visitant from Heaven, 

This bird with the immortal wing. 
To me — to me, Thy hand has given. 

The pulse first caught its tiny stroke, 
The blood its crimson hue, from mine ; • 

This life, which I have dared invoke. 
Henceforth is parallel with Thine. 

A silent awe is in my room — 
I tremble with delicious fear; 

The future, with its light and gloom, 
Time and Eternity, are here. 

Doubts — hopes, in eager tumult rise; 

Hear, O my God ! one earnest prayer: 
Room for my bird in Paradise, 

And give her angel plumage there ! 



^rtt)ur ^ncDclaiiti Core 



lONA 



A MEMORIAL OF ST. COLUMBA 

We gazed on Corryvrekin's whirl. 

We sailed by Jura's shore, 
Where sang of old the mermaid-girl. 

Whose shell is heard no more; 
We came to Fingal's pillared cave. 

That minster in the sea, 
And sang — while clapped its hands the 
wave 

And worshipped even as we. 



But when, at fair lona's bound, 

We leaped upon its soil, 
I felt indeed 'twas holy ground, — 

Too holy for such spoil; 
For spoilers came in evil day. 

Where once to Christ they prayed: 
Alas ! His Body — ta'en away. 

We know not where 't was laid. 

We strode above those ancient graves. 
We worshipped by that Cross, 

And where their snow-white manes the 
waves 
Like troops of chargers toss. 



COXE — WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING 



185 



We gazed upon the distant scene, 
And thought how Columb came 

To kindle here the Gospel's sheen, 
And preach the Saviour's name: 

Came where the rude marauding clan 

Enforced him to an isle; 
Came but to bless and not to ban, 

To make the desert smile. 
He made his island church a gem 

That sparkled in the night, 
Or like that Star of Bethlehem, 

That bathes the world with light. 

But look ! this isle that gems the deep — 

One glance may all behold — 
This was the shelter of his sheep, 

This was Coluraba's fold. 
Bishops were gold in days of yore, 

For golden was their good, 
But in their pastoral hands they bore 

A shepherd's staff of wood. 

Here elders and his deacons due 

'Neath one blest roof they dwelt, 
And, ere the bird of dawning crew. 

They rose to pray, — and knelt: 
Here, watching through the darker hours, 

Vigil and fast they kept, 
Like those, once hailed by heavenly powers, 

While Herod drowsed and slept. 

Thus gleaming like a pharos forth 

To shed of Truth the flame, 
A Patmos of the frozen North 

lona's isle became. 
The isles that waited for God's Law 

Mid all the highlands round. 
That beacon as it blazed — they saw. 

They sought the Light and found. 

It shone upon those headlands hoar 
That crest thy coasts, Argyle; 



To watchers, far as Mona's shore, 

It seemed a burning pile ; 
To peasant cots and fishers' skiffs 

It brightened lands and seas ; 
From Solway to Edina's cliffs. 

And southward to the Tees. 

Nay more ! For when, that day of bliss, 

I sought Columba's bay, 
Came one, as from the wilderness, 

A thousand leagues away; 
A bishop of Columba's kin, 

As primitive as he, 
Knelt pilgrim-like, those walls within. 

The Saint of Tennessee. 

Thrilled as with rapture strange and 
wild, 

I saw him worship there; 
And Otey, like a little child, 

Outpoured his soul in prayer. 
For oh ! to him came thoughts, I ween, 

Of one who crossed the seas, 
And brought from distant Aberdeen 

Gifts of the old Cuklees. 

Great God, how marvellous the flame 

A little spark may light ! 
What here was kindled first — the same 

Makes far Atlantis bright: 
Not Scotia's clans, nor Urabria's son 

Alone that beacon blest. 
It shines to-day o'er Oregon, 

And glorifies our West. 

Columbia from Columba claims 

More than great Colon brought, 
And long entwined those twins of names 

Shall waken grateful thought; 
And where the Cross is borne afar 

To California's shore, 
Columba's memory like a star 

Shall brighten evermore. 



Jt^iHiani ^Hcrp Cftanning 



FROM "A POET'S HOPE" 

Lady, there is a hope that all men have, — 
Some mercy for their faults, a grassy 

place 
To rest in,and aflower-strown, gentle grave; 
Another hope which purifies our race, 



That, when that fearful bourne forever 

past. 
They may find rest, — and rest so long to 

last. 

I seek it not, I ask no rest for ever. 

My path is onward to the farthest shores, — 



i86 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Upbear me in your arms, unceasing river, 
That from the soul's clear fountain swiftly 

pours, 
Motionless not, until the end is won, 
Which now I feel hath scarcely felt the 

sun. 

To feel, to know, to soar unlimited 
Mid throngs of light-winged angels sweep- 
ing far, 
And pore upon the realms unvisited 
That tessellate the unseen, unthought 

star, — 
To be the thing that now I feebly dream. 
Flashing within my faintest, deepest gleam. 

Ah ! caverns of my soul ! how thick your 

shade. 
Where flows that life by which I faintly 

see: — 
Wave your bright torches, for I need your 

aid, 
Golden-eyed demons of my ancestry ! 
Your son though blinded hath a light 

within, 
A heavenly fire which ye from suns did 

win. 

And, lady, in thy hope my life will rise 
Like the air-voyager, till I upbear 
These heavy curtains of my filmy eyes 
Into a lighter, more celestial air: 
A mortal's hope shall bear me safely 

on, 
Till I the higher region shall have won. 

Time ! O Death ! I clasp you in my 

arms, 

For I can soothe an infinite cold sorrow, 
. And gaze contented on your icy charms 

And that wild snow-pile which we call to- 
morrow ; 

Sweep on, O soft and azure-lidded sky. 

Earth's waters to your gentle gaze reply. 

1 am not earth-born, though I here de- 

lay ; 
Hope's child, I summon iufiniter powers, 
And laugh to see the mild and sunny 

day 
Smile on the shrunk and thin autumnal 

hours ; 
t laugh, for hope hath happy place with 

me, — 
If my bark sinks, 'tis to another sea. 



HYMN OF THE EARTH 

My highway is uufeatured air. 
My consorts are the sleepless Stars, 
And men my giant arms upbear, — 
My arms unstained and free from scars. 

I rest forever on my way. 
Rolling around the happy Sun; 
My children love the sunny day. 
But noon and night to me are one. 

My heart has pulses like their own, 
I am their Mother, and my veins. 
Though built of the enduring stone, 
Thrill as do theirs with godlike pains. 

The forests and the mountains high, 
The foaming ocean and the springs, 
The plains, — O pleasant Company, 
My voice through all your anthem rings ! 

Ye are so cheerful in your minds. 
Content to smile, content to share: 
My being in your chorus finds 
The echo of the spheral air. 

No leaf may fall, no pebble roll, 
No drop of water lose the road; 
The issues of the general Soul 
Are mirrored in its round abode. 



THE BARREN MOORS 

On your bare rocks, O barren moors, 
On your bare rocks I love to lie ! — 
They stand like crags upon the shores, 
Or clouds upon a placid sky. 

Across those spaces desolate 
The fox pursues his lonely way. 
Those solitudes can fairly sate 
The passage of my loneliest day. 

Like desert islands far at sea 
Where not a ship can ever land, 
Those dim uncertainties to me 
For something veritable stand. 

A serious place distinct from all 
Which busy Life delights to feel, — 
I stand in this deserted hall. 
And thus the wounds of time conceal. 



WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING 



187 



No friend's cold eye, or sad delay, 
Shall vex me now where not a sound 
Falls on the ear, and every day 
Is soft as silence most profound. 

No more upon these distant worlds 
The agitating world can come, 
A single pensive thought upholds 
The arches of this dreamy home. 

Within the sky above, one thought 
Replies to you, O barren moors ! 
Between, I stand, a creature taught 
To stand between two silent floors. 



TEARS IN SPRING 

(lament for thoreau) 

The swallow is flying over, 

But he will not come to me; 

He flits, my daring rover, 

From land to land, from sea to sea; 

Where hot Bermuda's reef 

Its barrier lifts to fortify the shore, 

Above the surf's wild roar 

He darts as swiftly o'er, — 

But he who heard his cry of spring 

Hears that no more, heeds not his wing. 

How bright the skies that dally 

Along day's cheerful arch, 

And paint the sunset valley ! 

How redly buds the larch ! 

Blackbirds are singing. 

Clear hylas ringing, 

Over the meadow the frogs proclaim 

The coming of Spring to boy and dame, 

But not to me, — 

Nor thee ! 

And golden crowfoot 's shining near, 
Spring everywhere that shoots 't is clear, 
A wail in the wind is all I hear; 
A voice of woe for a lover's loss, 
A motto for a travelling cross, — 
And yet it is mean to mourn for thee. 
In the form of bird or blossom or bee. 

Cold are the sods of the valley to-day 
Where thou art sleeping. 
That took thee back to thy native clay; 
Cold, — if above thee the grass is peeping 
And the patient sunlight creeping, 



While the bluebird sits on the Ic cast- 
bough 
Whose shadow is painted across thy brow, 
And carols his welcome so sad and sweet 
To the Spring that comes and kisses his 
feet. 



EDITH 

Edith, the silent stars are coldly gleam- 
ing, 
The night wind moans, the leafless trees 
are still. 
Edith, there is a life beyond this seem- 
ing, 
So sleeps the ice-clad lake beneath thy 
hill. 

So silent beats the pulse of thy pure heart, 

So shines the thought of thy unquestioned 

eyes. 

O life ! why wert thou helpless in thy art ? 

O loveliness ! why seem'st thou but 

surprise ? 

Edith, the streamlets laugh to leap again; 
There is a spring to which life's pulses 

fly; 

And hopes that are not all the sport of 
pain, 
Like lustres in the veil of that gray eye. 

They say the thankless stars have answer- 
ing vision, 
That courage sings from out the frost- 
bound ways; 
Edith, I grant that olden time's decision ' — 
Thy beauty paints with gold the icy 
rays. 

As in the summer's heat her promise lies. 
As in the autumn's seed his vintage hides, 

Thus might I shape my moral from those 
eyes. 
Glass of thy soul, where innocence abides. 

Edith, thy nature breathes of answered 
praying; 
If thou dost live, then not my grief is 
vain; 
Beyond the nerves of woe, beyond delay- 
ing, 
Thy sweetness stills to rest the winter's 
pain. 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



ai^arp €\i^n^ct^ (l^ctuitt) d^JtcBfim^ 



THE SUNFLOWER TO THE SUN 

Hymetttjs' bees are out on filmy wing, 
Dim Phosphor slowly fades adown the 
west, 
And Earth awakes. Shine on me, O my 
king ! 
For I with dew am laden and oppressed. 

Long through the misty hours of morning 
gray 
The flowers have watched to hail thee 
from yon sea ! 
Sad Asphodel, that pines to meet thy ray, 
And Juno's roses, pale for love of thee. 

Perchance thou dalliest with the Morning 
Hour, 
Whose blush is reddening now the east- 
ern wave; 
Or to the cloud forever leavest thy flower. 
Wiled by the glance white-footed Thetis 
gave. 

I was a proud Chaldean monarch's child ! 

Euphrates' waters told me I was fair, — 
And thou, Thessalia's shepherd, on me 
smiled, 

And likened to thine own my amber hair. 

Thou art my life — sustainer of my spirit ! 

Leave me not then in darkness here to 
pine; 
Other hearts love thee, yet do they inherit 

A passionate devotedness like mine ? 

But lo ! thou lift'st thy shield o'er yonder 
tide: 
The dun clouds fly before the conquering 
Sun; 
Thou like a monarch up the heavens dost 
ride, — 
And, joy ! thou beam'st on me, celestial 
one ! 

On me, thy worshipper, thy poor Parsee, 
Whose brow adoring types thy face di- 
vine; 
God of my burning heart's idolatry, 
Take root like me, or give me life like 
thine ! 



HAROLD THE VALIANT i 

I MID the hills was born. 

Where the skilled bowmen 
Send with unerring shaft 

Death to the foemen. 
But I love to steer my bark — 

To fear a stranger — 
Over the Maelstrom's edge, 

Daring the danger; 
And where the mariner 

Paleth affrighted, 
Over the sunken rocks 

I dash on delighted. 
The far waters know my keel. 

No tide restrains me; 
But ah ! a Russian maid 

Coldly disdains me. 

Once round Sicilia's isle 

Sailed I, unf earing: 
Conflict was on my prow, 

Glory was steering. 
Where fled the stranger ship 

Wildly before me, 
Down, like the hungry hawk, 

My vessel bore me; 
We carved on the craven's deck 

The red runes of slaughter: 
When my bird whets her beak 

I give no quarter. 
The far waters know my keel, 

No tide restrains me; 
But ah ! a Russian maid 

Coldly disdains me. 

Countless as spears of grain 

Stood the warriors of Drontheim, 
When like the hurricane 

I swept down upon them ! 
Like chaff beneath the flail 

They fell in their numbers : — 
Their king with the golden hair 

I sent to his slumbers. 
I love the combat fierce, 

No fear restrains me; 
But ah ! a Russian maid 

Coldly disdains me. 



Once o'er the Baltic Sea 
Swift we were dashing; 

1 See Biographical Note, p. 822. 



MRS. STEBBINS — ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



189 



Bright on our twenty spears 


Springs like the mettled steed 


Sunlight was flashing; 


When the spur stingeth. 


When through, the Skager Rack 


Valiant I am in fight. 


- The storm-wind was driven, 


No fear restrains me; 


And from our bending mast 


But ah ! a Russian maid 


The broad sail was i^ven: 


Coldly disdains me. 


Then, while the angry brine 




Foamed like a flagon, 


Saith she, the maiden fair, 


Brimful the yesty rime 


The Norsemen are cravens ? 


Filled our brown dragon; 


I in the Southland gave 


But I, with sinewy hand 


A feast to the ravens ! 


Strengthened in slaughter. 


Green lay the sward outspread, 


Forth from the straining ship 


The bright sun was o'er us 


Bailed the dun water. 


When the strong fighting men 


The wild waters know my keel, 


Rushed down before us. 


No storm restrains me; 


Midway to meet the shock 


But ah ! a Russian maid 


My courser bore me. 


Coldly disdains me. 


And like Thor's hammer crashed 




My strong hand before me ; 


_ Firmly I curb my steed, 


Left we their maids in tears, 


As e'er Thracian horseman; 


Their city in embers: 


My hand throws the javelin true, 


The sound of the Viking's spears 


Pride of the Norseman; 


The Southland remembers ! 


And the bold skater marks, 


I love the combat fierce, 


While his lips quiver. 


No fear restrains me; 


Where o'er the bending ice 


But ah ! a Russian maid 


I skim the river: 


Coldly disdains me. 


Forth to my rapid oar 




The boat swiftly springeth — 





annitional ^electfon^ 



(VARIOUS POEMS BELONGING TO THIS DIVISION) 



REQUIEM 

FOR ONE SLAIN IN BATTLE 

Breathe, trumpets, breathe 

Slow notes of saddest wailing, — 
Sadly responsive peal, ye muffled drums; 
Comrades, with downcast eyes 

And banners trailing. 

Attend him home, — 
The youthful warrior comes. 

Upon his shield, 

Upon his shield returning, 



Borne from the field of honor 

Where he fell; 
Glory and grief, together clasped 

In mourning. 
His fame, his fate 

With sobs exulting tell. 

Wrap round his breast 

The flag his breast defended, — 
His country's flag, 

In battle's front unrolled: 
For it he died ; 

On earth forever ended 
His brave young life 

Lives in each sacred fold. 



190 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



With proud fond tears, 

By tinge of shame untainted, 
Bear him, and lay him 

Gently in his grave: 
Above the hero write, — 

The young, half-sainted, — 
His country asked his life. 

His life he gave ! 

George Lunt 



NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD 

New England's dead ! New England's 
dead ! 

On every hill they lie ; 
On every field of strife, made red 

By bloody victory. 
Each valley, where the battle poured 

Its red and awful tide, 
Beheld the brave New England sword 

With slaughter deeply dyed. 
Their bones are on the northern hill, 

And on the southern plain. 
By brook and river, lake and rill, 

And by the roaring main. 

The land is holy where they fought, 

And holy where they fell; 
For by their blood that land was bought, 

The land they loved so well. 
Then glory to that valiant band. 
The honored saviours of the land ! 

O, few and weak their numbers were, — 

A handful of brave men; 
But to their God they gave their prayer, 

And rushed to battle then. 
The God of battles heard their cry. 
And sent to them the victory. 

They left the ploughshare in the mould, 

Their flocks and herds without a fold, 

The sickle in the unshorn grain. 

The corn, half-garnered, on the plain. 

And mustered, in their simple dress, 

^or wrongs to seek a stern redress. 

To right those wrongs, come weal, come 

woe. 
To perish, or o'ercome their foe. 

And where are ye, O fearless men ? 

And where are ye to-day ? 
I call : -^ the hills reply again 

That ye have passed away; 



That on old Bunker's lonely height. 

In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground. 
The grass grows green, the harvest bright 

Above each soldier's mound. 
The bugle's wild and warlike blast 

Shall muster them no more; 
An army now might thunder past, 

And they heed not its roar. 
The starry flag, 'neath which they fought 

In many a bloody day. 
From their old graves shall rouse them 
not. 

For they have passed away. 

Isaac McLellan 



WASHINGTON'S STATUE 

The quarry whence thy form majestic 
sprung 

Has peopled earth with grace. 
Heroes and gods that elder bards have 
sung, 

A bright and peerless race; 
But fromi its sleeping veins ne'er rose be- 
fore 

A shape of loftier name 
Than his, who Glory's wreath with meek- 
ness wore, 

The noblest son of Fame. 
Sheathed is the sword that Passion never 
stained ; 

His gaze around is cast. 
As if the joys of Freedom, newly gained, 

Before his vision passed; 
As if a nation's shout of love and pride 

With music filled the air. 
And his calm soul was lifted on the tide 

Of deep and grateful prayer; 
As if the crystal mirror of his life 

To fancy sweetly came. 
With scenes of patient toil and noble strife, 

Undimmed by doubt or shame; 
As if the lofty purpose of his soul 

Expression would betray, — 
The high resolve Ambition to control, 

And thrust her crown away ! 
O, it was well in marble firm and white 

To carve our hero's form. 
Whose angel guidance was our strength in 
fight. 

Our star amid the storm ! 
Whose matchless truth has made his name 
divine. 

And human freedom sure. 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



191 



His country great, his tomb earth's dearest 
shrine, 

While man and time endure ! 
And it is well to place his image there 

Upon the soil he blest: 
Let meaner spirits, who its councils share, 

Revere that silent guest ! 



Let us go up with high and sacred love 

To look on his pure brow, 
And as, with solemn grace, he points 
above. 
Renew the patriot's vow ! 

Henry Theodore Tuckerman 



II 



THE STAR OF CALVARY 

It is the same infrequent star, — 

The all-mysterious light. 
That like a watcher, gazing on 

The changes of the night, 
Toward the hill of Bethlehem took 

Its solitary flight. 

It is the same infrequent star; 

Its sameness startleth me, 
Although the disk is red as blood, 

And downward silently 
It looketh on another hill, — 

The hill of Calvary ! 

Nor noon, nor night; for to the west 

The heavy sun doth glow; 
And, like a ship, the lazy mist 

Is sailing on below, — 
Between the broad sun and the earth 

It tacketh to and fro. 

There is no living wind astir; 

The bat's unholy wing 
Threads through the noiseless olive trees, 

Like some unquiet thing 
Which playeth in the darkness, when 

The leaves are whispering. 

Mount Calvary ! Mount Calvary ! 

All sorrowfully still. 
That mournful tread, it rends the heart 

With an unwelcome thrill, — 
The mournful tread of them that crowd 

Thy melancholy hill ! 

There is a cross, — not one alone: 
'T is even three I count, 



Like columns on the mossy marge 
Of some old Grecian fount, — 

So pale they stand, so drearily, 
On that mysterious Mount. 

Behold, O Israel ! behold, 

It is no human One 
That ye have dared to crucify. 

What evil hath he done ? 
It is your King, O Israel ! 

The God-begotten Son ! 

A wreath of thorns, a wreath of thorns ! 

Why have ye crowned him so ? 
That brow is bathed in agony, — 

'T is veiled in every woe : 
Ye saw not the immortal trace 

Of Deity below. 

It is the foremost of the Three f 

Resignedly they fall, 
Those deathlike drooping features, 

Unbending, blighted all: 
The Man of Sorrows, — how he bears 

The agonizing thrall ! 

'T Is fixed on thee, O Israel ! 

His gaze ! — how strange to brook; 
But that there 's mercy blended deep 

In each reproachful look, 
'T would search thee, till the very heart 

Its withered home forsook. 

To God ! to God ! how eloquent 

The cry, as if it grew. 
By those cold lips unuttered, yet 

All heartfelt rising through, — 
" Father in heaven I forgive them, for 

They know not what they do ! " 

Nathaniel Hawthorne^ 



1 See Biographical Note, p. 797. 



ig2 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



THE CLOUDS 

I. CANNOT look above and see 

Yon high-piled, pillowy mass 
Of evening clouds, so swimmingly 

In gold and purple pass, 
And think not. Lord, how thou wast seen 

On Israel's desert way. 
Before them, in thy shadowy screen, 

Pavilioned all the day ! 

Or, of those robes of gorgeous hue 

Which the Redeemer wore, 
When, ravished from his followers' view, 

Aloft his flight he bore; 
When lifted, as on mighty wing, 

He curtained his ascent, 
And, wrapt in clouds, went triumphing 

Above the firmament. 

Is it a trail of that same pall 

Of many-colored dyes, 
That high above, o'ermantling all, 

Hangs midway down the skies, — 
Or borders of those sweeping folds 

Which shall be all unfurled 
About the Saviour, when he holds 

His judgment on the world ? 

For in like manner as he went, — 

My soul, hast thou forgot ? — 
Shall be his terrible descent, 

When man expecteth not ! 
Strength, Son of man, against that hour, 

Be to our spirits given. 
When thou shalt come again with power, 

Upon the clouds of heaven ! 

William Croswell 



A WORLD BEYOND 

Science long watched the realms of 

space, 
A planet's devious path to trace: 
Convinced of heaven's harmonious law, 
" A world beyond " Leverrier saw. 

Thus when he views earth's sins and 

woes, 
With a like faith the Christian knows 
There is a world beyond, to prove 
God's perfect wisdom, power, and love. 

Nathaniel Ingersoll Bowditch 



IT IS NOT DEATH TO DIE 

It is not death to die, 

To leave this weary road. 
And, midst the brotherhood on high, 
« To be at home with God. 

It is not death to close 

The eye long dimmed by tears, 
And wake in glorious repose, 

To spend eternal years. 

It is not death to bear 

The wrench that sets us free 

From dungeon-chain, to breathe the air 
Of boundless liberty. 

It is not death to fling 

Aside this sinful dust. 
And rise on strong, exulting wing, 

To live among the just. 

Jesus, thou Prince of Life, 

Thy chosen cannot die ! 
Like Thee, they conquer in the strife, 

To reign with Thee on high. 

George Washington Bethune 



PARAPHRASE OF LUTHER'S 

HYMN 

A MIGHTY fortress is our God, 

A bulwark never failing; 
Our helper he amid the flood 
Of mortal ills prevailing. 
For still our ancient foe 
Doth seek to work us woe; 
His craft and power are great, 
And, armed with cruel hate. 
On earth is not his equal. 

Did we in our own strength confide, 

Our striving would be losing, — 
Were not the right man on our side. 
The man of God's own choosing. 
Dost ask who that may be ? 
Christ Jesus, it is he, 
Lord Sabaoth his name, 
From age to age the same, 
And he must win the battle. 

And though this world, with devils filled. 
Should threaten to undo us, 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



193 



We will not fear, for God hath willed 
His truth to triumph through us. 

The Prince of Darkness grim, — 

We tremble not for him; ' 

His rage we can endure. 

For lo ! his doom is sure : 
One little word shall fell him. 

That word above all earthly powers, 

No thanks to them, abideth; 
The spirit and the gifts are ours 
Through Him who with us sideth. 
Let goods and kindred go, 
This mortal life also; 
The body they may kill, 
God's truth abideth still, 
His Kingdom is forever. 

Frederic Henry Hedge 



DIES IR^ 

Day of wrath, that day of burning. 
Seer and Sibyl speak concerning. 
All the world to ashes turning. 

Oh, what fear shall it engender, 
When the Judge shall come in splen- 
dor. 
Strict to mark and just to render ! 

Trumpet, scattering sounds of wonder, 
Rending sepulchres asunder, 
Shall resistless summons thunder. 

All aghast then Death shall shiver. 
And great Nature's frame shall quiver. 
When the graves their dead deliver. 

Volume, from which nothing 's blotted, 

Evil done nor evil plotted, 

Shall be brought and dooms allotted. 

When shall sit the Judge unerring. 
He '11 unfold all here occurring, 
Vengeance then no more deferring. 

What shall / say, that time pending ? 
Ask what advocate 's befriending. 
When the just man needs defending ? 

Dreadful King, all power possessing. 
Saving freely those confessing. 
Save thou me, O Fount of Blessing ! 



Think, O Jesus, for what reason 

Thou didst bear earth's spite and treason, 

Nor me lose in that dread season J 

Seeking me Thy worn feet hasted, 
On the cross Thy soul death tasted: 
Let such travail not be wasted ! 

Righteous Judge of retribution ! 
Make me gift of absolution 
Ere that day of execution ! 

Culprit-like, I plead, heart-broken, 
On my cheek shame's crimson token: 
Let the pardoning word be spoken ! 

Thou, who Mary gav'st remission, 
Heard'st the dying Thief's petition, 
Cheer'st with hope my lost condition. 

Though my prayers be void of merit, ' 
What is needful. Thou confer it, 
Lest I endless fire inherit. 

Be there, Lord, my place decided 
With Thy sheep, from goats divided. 
Kindly to Thy right hand guided ! 

When the accursed away are driven, 

To eternal burnings given, 

Call me with the blessed to heaven ! 

I beseech Thee, prostrate lying. 
Heart as ashes, contrite, sighing. 
Care for me when I am dying ! 

Day of tears and late repentance, 
Man shall rise to hear his sentence: 
Him, the child of guilt and error, 
Spare, Lord, in that hour of terror ! 

Abraham Coles 



MILTON'S PRAYER OF PATIENCE 

I AM old and blind ! 
Men point at me as smitten by God's 

frown; 
Afflicted and deserted of my kind. 

Yet am I not cast down. 

I am weak, yet strong; 
I murmur not that I no longer see; 
Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong, 

Father Supreme ! to Thee. 



194 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



All-merciful One ! 
When men are furthest, then art Thou 

most near; 
When friends pass by, my weaknesses to 
shun, 
Thy chariot I hear. 

Thy glorious face 
Is leaning toward me, and its holy light 
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place, — 

And there is no more night. 

On my bended knee 
I recognize Thy purpose clearly shown; 
My vision Thou hast dimmed, that I may 
see 

Thyself — Thyself alone. 

I have naught to fear: 
This darkness is the shadow of Thy 

wing; 
Beneath it I am almost sacred — here 

Can come no evil thing. 

Oh, I seem to stand 
Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath 

been. 
Wrapped in that radiance from the sinless 
land. 
Which eye hath never seen! 

Visions come and go: 
Shapes of resplendent beauty round me 

throng; 
From angel lips I seem to hear the flow 

Of soft and holy song. 

It is nothing now. 
When heaven is opening on my sightless 

eyes. 
When airs from Paradise refresh my 
brow. 
That earth in darkness lies. 

In a purer clime 
My being fills with rapture, — waves of 

thought 
Roll in upon my spirit, — strains sublime 

Break over me unsought. 

Give me now my lyre ! 
I feel the stirrings of a gift divine: 
Within my bosom glows unearthly fire 

Lit by no skill of mine. 

Elizabeth Lloyd Howell 



THE ANGELS' SONG 

It came upon the midnight clear, 

That glorious song of old. 
From angels bending near the earth 

To touch their harps of gold : 
" Peace to the earth, good-will to men 

From heaven's all-gracious King ! " 
The world in solemn stillness lay 

To hear the angels sing. 

Still through the cloven skies they come, 

With peaceful wings unfurled; 
And still their heavenly music floats 

O'er all the weary world: 
Above its sad and lowly plains 

They bend on heavenly wing, 
And ever o'er its Babel sounds 

The blessed angels sing. 

Yet with the woes of sin and strife 

The world has suffered long; 
Beneath the angel-strain have rolled 

Two thousand years of wrong; 
And man, at war with man, hears not 

The love-song which they bring: 
O, hush the noise, ye men of strife, 

And hear the angels sing ! 

And ye, beneath life's crushing load 

Whose forms are bending low; 
Who toil along the climbing way 

With painful steps and slow, — 
Look now ! for glad and golden hours 

Come swiftly on the wing; 
O, rest beside the weary road. 

And hear the angels sing. 

For lo ! the days are hastening on, 

By prophet-bards foretold, i 

When with the ever-circling years 

Comes round the age of gold; 
When Peace shall over all the earth 

Its ancient splendors fling. 
And the whole world send back the song 

Which now the angels sing. 

Edmund Hamilton Sears 



THE OTHER WORLD 

It lies around us like a cloud. 
The world we do not see; 

Yet the sweet closing of an eye 
May bring us there to be. 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



195 



Its gentle breezes fau our cheeks 

Amid our worldly cares; 
Its gentle voices whisper love, 

And mingle with our prayers. 

Sweet hearts around us throb and beat, 
Sweet helping hands are stirred, 

And palpitates the veil between, 
With breathings almost heard. 

The silence, awfiil, sweet, and calm, 
They have no power to break; 

For mortal words are not for them 
To utter or partake. 

So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide, 

So near to press they seem, 
They lull us gently to our rest, 

They melt into our dream. 

And, in the hush of rest they bring, 
'T is easy now to see 



How lovely and how sweet a pass 
The hour of death may be ; — 

To close the eye and close the ear, 
Wrapped in a trance of bliss. 

And, gently drawn in loving arms, 
To swoon from that to this: — 

Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep. 

Scarce asking where we are. 
To feel all evil sink away, 

All sorrow and all care ! 

Sweet souls around us ! watch us still, 

Press nearer to our side; 
Into our thoughts, into our prayers. 

With gentle helping glide. 

Let death between us be as naught, 
A dried and vanished stream; 

Your joy be the reality, 

Our suffering life the dream. 
Harriet Elizabeth Beecher Stowe 



III 



LOVE UNCHANGEABLE 

Yes, still I love thee ! Time, who sets 

His signet on my brow. 
And dims my sunken eye, forgets 

The heart he could not bow, 
Where love, that cannot perish, grows 
For one, alas ! that little knows 

How love may sometimes last. 
Like sunshine wasting in the skies, 

When clouds are overcast. 

The dew-drop hanging o'er the rose. 

Within its robe of light, 
Can never touch a leaf that blows. 

Though seeming to the sight; 
And yet it still will linger there. 
Like hopeless love without despair, — 

A snow-drop in the sun : 
A moment finely exquisite, 

Alas ! but only one. 

I would not have thy married heart 

Think momently of me; 
Nor would I tear the cords apart, 

That bind me so to thee; 



No ! while my thoughts seem pure and 

mild. 
Like dew upon the roses wild, 

I would not have thee know 
The stream, that seems to thee so still, 

Has such a tide below. 

Enough that in delicious dreams 

I see thee and forget, — 
Enough, that when the morning beams 

I feel my eyelids wet ! 
Yet, could I hope, when Time lets fall 
The darkness for creation's pall. 

To meet thee, — and to love, — 
I would not shrink from aught below, 

Nor ask for more above. 

RuFus Dawes 



LOVE UNSOUGHT 

They tell me that I must not love, 
That thou wilt spurn the free 

And unbought tenderness that gives 
Its hidden wealth to thee. 



196 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



It may be so: I heed it not, 
Nor would I change my blissful lot, 
When thus I am allowed to make 
My heart a bankrupt for thy sake. 

They tell me when the fleeting charm 

Of novelty is o'er, 
Thou 'It turn away with careless brow 

And think of me no more. 
It may be so ! enough for me 
If sunny skies still smile o'er thee. 
Or I can trace, when thou art far, 
Thy pathway like a distant star. 

Emma Catharine Embury 



COME BACK 

Come back and bring my life again 

That went with thee beyond my will ! 
Restore me that which makes me man 

Or leaves me wretched, dead and chill ! 
Thy presence was of life a part ; 

Thine absence leaves the blank of death. 
They wait thy presence — eye and heart. 

With straining gaze and bated breath. 

The light is darkness, if thine eyes 

Make not the medium of its ray ; 
I see no star in evening skies. 

Save thou look up and point the way. 
Nor bursting buds in May's young bloom, 

Nor sunshine rippling o'er the sea. 
Bears up to heaven my heart's perfume 

Save thou my monitor can be. 

There are two paths for human feet, — 

One bordered by a duty plain. 
And one by phantoms cursed, yet sweet. 

Bewildering heart and maddening brain ; 
The one will right and reason urge. 

But thou must walk beside me there. 
Or else I tread the dizzy verge. 

And thou some guilt of loss must bear. 

Come back, there is no cause on earth, — 
No word of shame, no deed of wrong — 

Can bury all of truth and worth, 

And sunder bonds once firm and strong. 

There is no duty, heaven-imposed. 
That, velvet-gloved — an iron band 



Upon my heart-strings crushed and closed — 
Thy hate should all my love withstand. 

Days seem like ages — and, ere long, 

On senseless ears the cry may fall; 
Or, stilled by bitter shame and wrong, 

The pleading voice may cease to call. 
Come back ! before the eyes grow dim 

That keep but sight to see thee come, 
Ere fail and falter hand and limb, 

Whose strength but waits to fold thee 
home. 

Henry William Herbert 



SONG 

'T IS said that absence conquers love ! 

But, oh ! believe it not ; 
I 've tried, alas ! its power to prove. 

But thou art not forgot. 
Lady, though fate has bid us part. 

Yet still thou art as dear. 
As fixed in this devoted heart, 

As when I clasped thee here. 

I plunge into the busy crowd. 

And smile to hear thy name; 
And yet, as if I thought aloud. 

They know me still the same; 
And when the wine-cup passes round, 

I toast some other fair, — 
But when I ask my heart the sound, 

Thy name is echoed there. 

And when some other name I learn, 

And try to whisper love. 
Still will my heart to thee return 

Like the returning dove. 
In vain ! I never can forget, 

And would not be forgot; 
For I must bear the same regret, 

Whate'er may be my lot. 

E'en as the wounded bird will seek 

Its favorite bower to die, 
So, lady ! I would hear thee speak. 

And yield my parting sigh. 
'T is said that absence conquers love ! 

But, oh ! believe it not; 
I 've tried, alas ! its power to prove, 

But thou art not forgot. 

Frederick William Thomas 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



197 



IV 



A REMEMBRANCE 

I SEE thee still ! thou art not dead, ' 

Though dust is mingled with thy form; 
The broken sunbeam hath not shed 

The final rainbow on the storm: 
In visions of the midnight deep, 

Thine accents through my bosom thrill 
Till joy's fond impulse bids me weep, — 

For, wrapt in thought, I see thee still ! 

I see thee still, — that cheek of rose, — 

Those lips with dewy fragrance wet, — 
That forehead in serene repose, — 

Those sonl-lit eyes — I see them yet ! 
Sweet seraph ! Sure thou art not dead. 

Thou gracest still this earthly sphere; 
An influence still is round me shed, 

Like thine, — and yet thou art not here ! 

Farewell, beloved ! To mortal sight 

Thy vermeil cheek no more may bloom; 
No more thy smiles inspire delight. 

For thou art garnered in the tomb, — 
Rich harvest for that ruthless power 

Which hath me bound to bear his will: 
Yet, as in hope's unclouded hour. 

Throned in my heart I see thee still. 

Willis Gaylord Clarke 



A DEATH-BED 

Her suffering ended with the day, 

Yet lived she at its close. 
And breathed the long, long night away 

In statue-like repose. 

But when the sun in all his state 

Illumed the eastern skies, 
She passed through Glory's morning gate 

And walked in Paradise ! 

James Aldrich 



DIRGE 

Softly ! 
She is lying 

With her lips apart; 



Softly ! 

She is dying 

Of a broken heart. 

Whisper ! 

Life is growing 

Dim within her breast; 
Whisper ! 
She is going 

To her final rest. 

Gently ! 

She is sleeping, 

She has breathed her last ! 
Gently ! 

While you 're weeping 
She to heaven has passed. 

Charles Gamage Eastman 



FLORENCE VANE 

I LOVED thee long and dearly, 

Florence Vane; 
My life's bright dream and early 

Hath come again; 
I renew in my fond vision 

My heart's dear pain. 
My hope, and thy derision, 

Florence Vane. 

The ruin lone and hoary, 

The ruin old. 
Where thou didst mark my story, 

At even told, — 
That spot — the hues Elysian 

Of sky and plain — 
I treasure in my vision, 

Florence Vane. 

Thou wast lovelier than the roses 

In their prime ; 
Thy voice excelled the closes 

Of sweetest rhyme; 
Thy heart was as a river 

Without a main. 
Would I had loved thee never, 

Florence Vane ! 

But, fairest, coldest wonder f 
Thy glorious clay 



igS 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Lieth the green sod under, — 

Alas the day ! 
And it boots not to remember 

Thy disdain, — 
To quicken love's pale ember, 

Florence Vane. 

The lilies of the valley 

By young graves weep, 
The pansies love to dally 

Where maidens sleep; 
May their bloom, in beauty vying, 

Never wane 
Where thine earthly part is lying, 

Florence Vane ! 

Philip Pendleton Cooke 



• THE WIFE 

I COULD have stemmed misfortune's tide. 

And borne the rich one's sneer, — 
Have braved the haughty glance of pride. 

Nor shed a single tear; 
I could have smiled on every blow 

From life's full quiver thrown. 
While I might gaze on thee, and know 

I should not be alone. 

I could — I think I could — have brooked. 

E'en for a time, that thou 
Upon my fading face hadst looked 

With less of love than now ; 
For then I should at least have felt 

The sweet hope still my own 
To win thee back, and whilst I dwelt 

On earth, not been alone. 

But thus to see from day to day 

Thy brightening eye and cheek. 
And watch thy life-sands waste away, 

Unnumbered, slow, and meek; 
To meet thy smiles of tenderness. 

And catch the feeble tone 
Of kindness, ever breathed to bless, 

And feel I '11 be alone ; 

To mark thy strength each hour decay, 

And yet thy hopes grow stronger. 
As, filled with heavenward trust, they say 

Earth may not claim thee longer; 
Nay, dearest, 't is too much — this heart 

Must break when thou art gone : 
It must not be; we must not part; 

I could not live alone. 

Anna Peyre Dinnies 



BLIND LOUISE 

She knew that she was growing blind, — 

Foresaw the dreary night 
That soon would fall, without a star, 

Upon her fading sight; 

Yet never did she make complaint. 
But prayed each day might bring 

A beauty to her waning eyes, — 
The loveliness of spring ! 

She dreaded that eclipse which might 

Perpetually enclose 
Sad memories of a leafless world, 

A spectral realm of snows. 

She 'd rather that the verdure left 

An evergreen to shine 
Within her heart, as summer leaves 

Its memory on the pine. 

She had her wish ; for when the sun 
O'erhung his eastern towers. 

And shed his benediction on 

A world of May-time flowers, 

We found her seated, as of old, 

In her accustomed place, 
A midnight in her sightless eyes. 

And morn upon her face ! 

George Washington Dewey 



UNDER THE VIOLETS 

Under the violets, blue and sweet. 

Where low the willow droops and weeps. 

Where children tread with timid feet. 
When twilight o'er the forest creeps. 
She sleeps, — my little darling sleeps. 

Breathe low and soft, O wind ! breathe low 
Where so much loveliness is laid ! 

Pour out thy heart in strains of woe, 
O bird ! that in the willows' shade 
Sing'st till the stars do pale and fade. 

It may be that to other eyes. 
As in the happy days of old, 

The sun doth every morning rise 

O'er mountain summits tipped with gold, 
And set where sapphire seas are rolled; 

But I am so hedged round with woe, 
This glory I no more can see. 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



199 



weary heart, that throbbest so, 
Thou hast but this one wish, — to be 
A little 'dust beneath the tree. 

1 would thou hadst thy wish to-day, 
And we were lying side by side 

With her who took our life away 
That heavy day whereon she died. 
O grave ! I would thy gates were 



wide. 



Edward Young 



THE VOICE OF THE GRASS 

Here I come creeping, creeping every- 
where ; 

By the dusty roadside. 

On the sunny hill-side, 

Close by the noisy brook. 

In every shady nook, 
I come creeping, creeping everywhere. 

Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere ; 

All around the open door, 

Where sit the aged poor; 

Here where the children play, 

In the bright and merry May, 
I come creeping, creeping everywhere. 

Here I come creeping, creeping every- 
where ; 
In the noisy city street 
My pleasant face you '11 meet, 



Cheering the sick at heart 
Toiling his busy part, — 
Silently creeping, creeping everywhere. 

Here I come creeping, creeping every- 
where ; 
You cannot see me coming, 
Nor hear my low sweet humming; 
For in the starry night, 
And the glad morning light, 

I come quietly creeping everywhere. 

Here I come creeping, creeping every- 
where ; 
More welcome than the flowers 
In summer's pleasant hours: 
The gentle cow is glad. 
And the merry bird not sad. 

To see me creeping, creeping everywhere. 

Here I come creeping, creeping every- 
where : 
When you 're numbered with the dead 
In your still and narrow bed. 
In the happy spring I '11 come 
And deck your silent home — 

Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. 



creeping, creeping every- 



Here I come 
where ; 
My humble song of praise 
Most joyfully I raise 
To Him at whose command 
I beautify the land, 
Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. 

Sarah Roberts Boyle 



V 



A WINTER WISH 

Old wine to drink ! 

Ay, give the slippery juice 
That drippeth from the grape thrown loose 

Within the tun; 
Plucked from beneath the cliff 
Of sunny-sided Teneriffe, 
And ripened, 'neath the blink 

Of India's sun ! 

Peat whiskey hot, 
Tempered with well-boiled water ! 
These make the long night shorter, — 



Forgetting not 
Good stout old English porter. 

Old wood to burn ! 
Ay, bring the hill-side beech 
From where the owlets meet and screech, 

And ravens croak; 
The crackling pine, and cedar sweet; 
Bring too a clump of fragrant peat, 
Dug 'neath the fern; 
The knotted oak, 
A fagot too, perhap, 
Whose bright flame, dancing, winking, 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Shall light us at our drinking; 

While the oozing sap 
Shall make sweet music to our thinking. 

Old books to read ! 
Ay, bring those nodes of wit, 
The brazen-clasped, the vellum writ, 

Time-honored tomes ! 
The same my sire scanned before, 
The same my grandsire thumbed o'er. 
The same his sire from college bore, 
The well-earned meed 

Of Oxford's domes: 

Old Homer blind, 
Old Horace, rake Anacreon, by 
Old Tully, Plautus, Terence lie; 
Mort Arthur's olden minstrelsie, 
Quaint Burton, quainter Spenser, ay ! 
And Gervase Markham's venerie — 

Nor leave behind 
The holye Book by which we live and 
die. 

Old friends to talk ! 
Ay, bring those chosen few, 
The wise, the courtly, and the true, 

So rarely found; 
Him for my wine, him for my stud, 
Him for my easel, distich, bud 
In mountain walk ! 

Bring Walter good, 
With soulful Fred, and learned Will, 
And thee, my alter ego (dearer still 

For every mood). 
These add a bouquet to my wine ! 
These add a sparkle to my pine ! 

If these I tine. 
Can books, or fire, or wine be good ? 

Robert Hinckley Messinger 



A PROEM 

When in my walks I meet some ruddy 
lad — 
Or swarthy man — with tray-beladen 
head, 
Whose smile entreats me, or his visage 
sad. 
To buy the images he moulds for bread, 

I think that, — though his poor Greek 
Slave in chains. 
His Venus and her Boy with plaster dart, 



Be, like the Organ-Grinder's quavering 
strains. 
But farthings in the currency of art, — 

Such coins a kingly effigy still wear, 

Let metals base or precious in them mix: 

The painted vellum hallows not the Prayer, 
Nor ivory nor gold the Crucifix. 

Samuel Ward 



HORACE 

He who would echo Horace' lays 

Aspires to an Icarian fame; 
And borne on waxen wings essays 

A flight — may give some sea a name. 

My fate perchance ! But as I write 
I see through Time's reverted glass, 

In fleckered mists of shade and light. 
The phantoms of the ages pass. 

I see an infant, tired with play. 
Sleep sweetly in Apulia's wild. 

And doves bring myrtle leaves and bay 
To cover the courageous child. 

A stripling walks the streets of Rome, 
With slate and satchel on his arm; 

His life abroad, his ways at home, 
A loving father's care and charm. 

Fulfilment of his boyhood's dream, 

Greece welcomes now the freedman's son*, 

He haunts the groves of Academe, 
And quaffs the springs of Helicon. 

Light of the World ! the central seat 
Of wit and wisdom, art and lore, — 

In Athens patriot exiles meet 

Where bards and sages met before. 

No athlete, and no warrior he, 
With Brutus on Philippi's field. 

The darling of Melpomene, 

Not bravely, throws away his shield. 

Her fleets dispersed and tempest-tost, 
Her armies crushed, their leaders slain, — 

Now is the great Republic Jost, 
Lost never to revive again. 

The Julian star ascends the sky, 
It shines on groups of learned men, 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



Law clips the wings of Liberty, 

And Horace wields the Empire's pen. 

Names, only names ! — the brilliant throng 
That crowd the poet's pictured page: 

Still lives in his imperial song 
The soul of the Augustan age. 

No longer through the Sacred Way 
The pontiffs lead the vestal train; 

Thrones crumble, dynasties decay. 
Of Alaric born, or Charlemagne : — 

Saints, Soldiers, Presbyters, and Popes, 

In legions rise and disappear. 
And Bards with glowing horoscopes 

Oblivion garners year by year; 

But on strong wing, through upper air, — 
Two worlds beneath, the Old and New, — 

The Roman Swan is wafted where 
The Roman eagles never flew. 

John Osborne Sargent 



CHEZ BRfiBANTi 

The vicomte is wearing a brow of gloom 

As he mounts the stair to his favorite room. 

" Breakfast for two ! " the garpons say, 

" Then the pretty young lady is coming to- 
day ! " 

But the patron mutters, A Dieu ne plaise ! 

I want no clients from P^re la Chaise. 

Silver and crystal — a splendid show ! 

And a damask cloth white as driven snow. 

The vicomte sits down with a ghastly air, — 

His vis-a-vis is an empty chair. 

But he calls to the garQon, " Antoine ! 
Vite! 

Place a stool for the lady's feet." 

"The lady, monsieur?" (in a wavering 
tone). 

" Yes — when have you known me to 
breakfast alone ? 

Fill up her glass ! Versez ! Versez ! 

Tou see how white are her cheeks to-day : 



Sip it, my darling, 't was ordered for thee." 
He raises his glass, " A toi, Mimi ! " 
The garqon shudders, for nothing is there 
In the lady's place but an empty chair. 
But still, with an air of fierce unrest, 
The vicomte addresses an unseen guest. 
" Leave us, Antoine : we have much to say, 
And time is precious to me to-day." 
When the gar^on was gone he sprang up 

with a start: 
" Mimi is dead of a broken heart. 
Could I think, when she gave it with gen- 
erous joy, 
A woman's heart such a fragile toy ? 
Her trim little figure no longer I see ! 
Would I were lying with thee, Mimi ! 
For what is life but a hell to me ? 
What splendor and wealth but misery ? " 
A jet of flame and a whirl of smoke ! 
A detonation the silence broke. 
The landlord enters, and lying there 
Is the dead vicomte, with a stony glare 
Rigidly fixed on an empty chair. 
" Ilfaut avertir le commissaire ! 
Mafoi ! Chez Brebant ces cTioses sont rares ! " 
Francis Alexander Durivagb 



THE POET 

Gather all kindreds of this boundless 
realm 
To speak a common tongue in thee ! Be 
thou — 
Heart, pulse, and voice, whether pent hate 
o'erwhelm 
The stormy speech or young love whis- 
per low. 
Cheer them, immitigable battle-drum ! 
Forth, truth-mailed, to the old uncon- 
quered field. 
And lure them gently to a laurelled home. 
In notes more soft than lutes or viols 
yield. 
Fill all the stops of life with tuneful breath; 
Closing their lids, bestow a dirge-like death ! 
Cornelius Mathews 



^ See BlOORAFHICAL NoTB, p. 790. 



202 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD —DIVISION III 



DIVISION III 

(LOWELL, STORY, MRS. HOWE, WHITMAN, PARSONS, BROWNELL, READ, BOKER, THE 
STODDARDS, TAYLOR, MRS. DORR, MRS. PRESTON, MRS. COOKE, AND OTHERS) 



Siame^ iHujefjBfcn EotDcH 



FROM "RHCECUS" 

Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece, 
As full of gracious youth and beauty still 
As the immortal freshness of that grace 
Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze. 

A youth named Rhoecus, wandering in 

the wood. 
Saw an old oak just trembling to its fall, 
And, feeling pity of so fair a tree. 
He propped its gray trunk with admiring 

care. 
And with a thoughtless footstep loitered 

on. 
But, as he turned, he heard a voice behind 
That murmured " Rhoecus ! " 'T was as if 

the leaves, 
Stirred by a passing breath, bad murmured 

it, 
And, while he paused bewildered, yet again 
It murmured " RhcEcus ! " softer than a 

breeze. 
He started and beheld with dizzy eyes 
What seemed the substance of a happy 

dream 
Stand there before him, spreading a warm 

glow 
Within the green glooms of the shadowy 

oak. 
It seemed a woman's shape, yet far too 

fair 
To be a woman, and with eyes too meek 
For any that were wont to mate with gods. 
AH naked like a goddess stood she there. 
And like a goddess all too beautiful 
To feel the guilt-born earthliness of shame. 
" Rhoecus, I am the Dryad of this tree," 
Tlius she began, dropping her low-toned 

words 
Serene, and full, and clear, as drops of 

dew, 
" And with it I am doomed to live and die; 
The rain and sunshine are my caterers, 
Nor have I other bliss than simple life ; 



Now ask me what thou wilt, that I can 

give. 
And with a thankful joy it shall be thine." 

Then Rhcecus, with a flutter at the heart, 
Yet by the prompting of such beauty bold, 
Answered : " Wliat is there that can satisfy 
The endless craving of the soul but love ? 
Give me thy love, or but the hope of that 
Which must h6 evermore my nature's 

goal." 
After a little pause she said again. 
But with a glimpse of sadness in her tone, 
"I give it, Rhoecus, though a perilous gift; 
An hour before the sunset meet me here." 
And straightway there was nothing he 

could see 
But the green glooms beneath the shadowy 

oak, 
And not a sound came to his straining ears 
But the low trickling rustle of the leaves, 
And far away upon an emerald slope 
The falter of an idle shepherd's pipe. 

Now, in those days of simpleness and 

faith. 
Men did not think that happy things were 

dreams 
Because they overstepped the narrow bourn 
Of likelihood, but reverently deemed 
Nothing too wondrous or too beautiful 
To be the guerdon of a daring heart. 
So Rhoecus made no doubt that he was 

blest. 
And all along unto the city's gate 
Earth seemed to spring beneath him as he 

walked. 
The clear, broad sky looked bluer than its 

wont. 
And he could scarce believe he had not 

wings. 
Such sunshine seemed to glitter through his 

veins 
Instead of blood, so light he felt and 

strange. 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



203 



Young Rhcecus had a faithful heart 

enough, 
But one that in the present dwelt too 

much, 
And, taking with blithe welcome whatsoe'er 
Chance gave of joy, was wholly bound in 

that, 
Like the contented peasant of a vale, 
Deemed it the world, and never looked 

beyond. 
So, haply meeting in the afternoon ■ 
Some comrades who were playing at the 

dice, 
He joined them, and forgot all else beside. 

The dice were rattling at the merriest, 
And Rhcecus, who had met but sorry luck. 
Just laughed in triumph at a happy throw. 
When through the room there liummed a 

yellow bee 
That buzzed about his ear with down- 
dropped legs 
As if to light. And Rhcecus laughed and 

said. 
Feeling how red and flushed he was with 

loss, 
" By Venus ! does he take me for a rose ? " 
And brushed him off with rough, impatient 

hand. 
But still the bee came back, and thrice 

again 
EhcEcus did beat him off with growing 

wrath. 
Then through the window flew the wounded 

bee, 
And Rhcecus, tracking him with angry 

eyes. 
Saw a sharp mountain-peak of Thessaly 
Against the red disk of the setting sun, — 
And instantly the blood sank from his heart. 
As if its very walls had caved away. 
Without a word he turned, and, rushing 

forth. 
Ran madly through the city and the gate, 
And o'er the plain, which now the wood's 

long shade. 
By the low sun thrown forward broad and 

dim. 
Darkened wellnigh unto the city's wall. 

Quite spent and out of breath he reached 

the tree. 
And, listening fearfully, he heard once more 
The low voice murmur " Rhcecus ! " close 

at hand : 



Whereat he looked around him, but could 

see 
Naught but the deepening glooms beneath 

the oak. 
Then sighed the voice, " O Rhcecus ! never- 
more 
Shalt thou behold me or by day or night, 
Me, who would fain have blessed thee with 

a love 
More ripe and bounteous than ever yet 
Filled up with nectar any mortal heart: 
But thou didst scorn my humble messenger. 
And sent'st him back to me with bruised 

wings. 
We spirits only show to gentle eyes, 
We ever ask an undivided love. 
And he who scorns the least of Nature's 

works 
Is thenceforth exiled and shut out from all. 
Farewell ! for thou canst never see me 

more. " 

Then Rhcecus beat his breast and groaned 
aloud. 
And cried "Be pitiful ! forgive me yet 
This once, and I shall never need it more ! " 
" Alas ! " the voice returned, " 't is thou art 

blind, 
Not I unmerciful; I can forgive. 
But have no skill to heal thy spirit's eyes ; 
Only the soul hath power o'er itself." 
With that again there murmured " Never- 
more ! " 
And Rhcecus after heard no other sound, 
Except the rattling of the oak's crisp leaves, 
Like the long surf upon a distant shore 
Raking the sea-worn pebbles up and down. 
The night had gathered round him: o'er 

the plain 
The city sparkled with its thousand lights, 
And sounds of revel fell upon his ear 
Harshly and like a curse ; above, the sky, 
With all its bright sublimity of stars. 
Deepened, and on his forehead smote the 

breeze : 
Beauty was all around him and delight. 
But from that eve he was alone on earth. 



A STANZA ON FREEDOM 

They are slaves who fear to speak 
For the fallen and the weak ; 
They are slaves who will not choose 
Hatred, scoffing, and abuse. 



204 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Rather than in silence shrink 

From the truth they needs must think; 

They are slaves who dare not be 

In the right with two or three. 



HEBE 

I SAW the twinkle of white feet, 
I saw the flash of robes descending; 

Before her ran an influence fleet, 
That bowed my heart like barley bending. 

As, in bare fields, the searching bees 
Pilot to blooms beyond our finding, 

It led me on, by sweet degrees 
Joy's simple honey-cells unbinding. 

Those Graces were that seemed grim 
Fates; 
With nearer love the sky leaned o'er me; 

The long-sought Secret's golden gates 
On musical hinges swung before me. 

I saw the brimmed bowl in her grasp 
Thrilling With godhood; like a lover 

I sprang the proffered life to clasp; — 
The beaker fell; the luck was over. 

The earth has drunk the vintage up; 
What boots it patch the goblet's splinters ? 

Can Summer fill the icy cup, 
Whose treacherous crystal is but winter's ? 

O spendthrift haste ! await the Gods; 
The nectar crowns the lips of Patience; 

Haste scatters on unthankful sods 
The immortal gift in vain libations. 

Coy Hebe flies from those that woo, 
And shuns the hands would seize upon her; 

Follow thy life, and she will sue 
To pour for thee the cup of honor. 



SHE CAME AND WENT 

As a twig trembles, which a bird 

Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent. 

So is my memory thrilled and stirred; — 
I only know she came and went. 

As clasps some lake, by gnsts unriven. 
The blue dome's measureless content. 

So my soul held that moment's heaven; - 
I only know she came and went. 



As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps 
The orchards full of bloom and scent, 

So clove her May my wintry sleeps ; ^^ 
I only know she came and went. 

An angel stood and met my gaze, 

Through the low doorway of my tent; 

The tent is struck, the vision stays; — 
I only know she came and went. 

Oh, when the room grows slowly dim, 
And life's last oil is nearly spent. 

One gush of light these eyes will brim, 
Only to think she came and went. 



FROM "THE VISION OF SIR V> 
LAUNFAL " ^Q>''^ 

For a cap and bells our lives we pay, 
Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking: 

'T is heaven alone that is given away, 
'Tis only God may be had for the asking; 
No price is set on the lavish summer; 
June may be had by the poorest comer. 

And what is so rare as a day in June ? 

Then, if ever, come perfect days; 
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, 

And over it softly her warm ear lays; 
Whether we look or whether we listen, 
We hear life murmur or see it glisten; 
Every clod feels a stir of might. 

An instinct within it that reaches and 
towers, 
And, groping blindly above it for light. 

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; 
The flush of life may well be seen 

Thrilling back over hills and valleys; 
The cowslip startles in meadows green, 

The buttercup catches the sun in its 
chalice. 
And there 's never a leaf nor a blade too 
mean 

To be some happy creature's palace; 
The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves. 
And lets his illumined being o'errun 

With the deluge of summer it receives; 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, 
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters 

and sings; 
He sings to the wide world and she to her 

nest, — 
In the "nice ear of Nature which song is the 
best? 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



205 



Now is the high-tide of the year, 

And -whatever of life hath ebbed away 
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, 

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; 
Now the heart is so full that a drop over- 
fills it, 
We are happy now because God wills it; 
No matter how barren the past may have 

been, 
'T is enough for us now that the leaves are 

green ; 
We sit in the warm shade and feel right 

well 
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms 

swell; • 

We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help 

knowing 
That skies are clear and grass is growing; 
The breeze comes whispering in our ear, 
That dandelions are blossoming near. 
That maize has sprouted, that streams 

are flowing, 
That the river is bluer than the sky. 
That the robin is plastering his house hard 

by; 
And if the breeze kept the good news back, 
For other couriers we should not lack; 
We could guess it all by yon heifer's 

lowing, — 
And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer. 
Warmed with the new wine of the year, 
Tells all in his lusty crowing ! 

FROM "A FABLE FOR CRITICS" 

0' '' TO HIS COUNTRYMEN 

There are one or two things I should just 

like to hint, 
For you don't often get the truth told you 

in print; 
The most of you (this is what strikes all 

beholders) 
Have a mental and physical stoop in the 

shoulders ; 
Though you ought to be free as the winds 

and the waves. 
You 've the gait and the manners of run- 
away slaves; 
Though you brag of your New World, you 

don't half believe in it ; 
And as much of the Old as is possible weave 

in it; 
Your goddess of freedom, a tight, buxom 

girl, 



With lips like a cherry and teeth like a 

pearl. 
With eyes bold as Here's, and hair floating 

free. 
And full of the sun as the spray of the sea, 
Who can sing at a husking or romp at a 

shearing, 
Who can trip through the forests alone 

without fearing. 
Who can drive home the cows with a song' 

through the grass. 
Keeps glancing aside into Europe's cracked 

glass. 
Hides her red hands in gloves, pinches up 

her lithe waist, 
And makes herself wretched with transma- 
rine taste; 
She loses her fresh country charm when 

she takes 
Any mirror except her own rivers and lakes. 

ON HIMSELF 

There is Lowell, who 's striving Parnassus 

to climb 
With a whole bale of isms tied together 

with rhyme, 
He might get on alone, spite of brambles 

and boulders, 
But he can't with that bundle he has on his 

shoulders. 
The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh 

reaching 
Till he learns the distinction 'twixt singing 

and preaching; 
His lyre has some chords that would ring 

pretty well. 
But he 'd rather by half make a drum of 

the shell, 
And rattle away till he 's old as Methusa- 

lem, 
At the head of a march to the last new 

Jerusalem. 



FROM "THE BIGLOW PAPERS''^ 

WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS 

GuVENER B. is a sensible man; 

He stays to his home an' looks arter his 
folks ; 
He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can. 
An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes; 
But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. 



2o6 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



My ! aint if 'terrible ? Wut shall we 


An' John P. 


du? ,:f. 


Robinson he 


We can\ ^^fiJ • choose him o' course, — 


Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T. 


thet ';i at; 




Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't 


Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts 


you?) 


lies; 


An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all 


Sez they 're nothin' on airth but jest fee, 


that; 


faw,fum; _ 


Fer John P. 


An' thet all this big talk of our destinies 


Robinson he 


Is half on it ign'ance, an' t'other half 


Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. 


rum; 




But John P. 


Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man: 


Robinson he 


He 's ben on all sides thet give places or 


Sez it aint no sech thing ; an', of course, 


pelf; 


so must we. 


But consistency still wuz a part of his 




plan, — 


Parson Wilbur sez Jie never heerd in his 


He 's ben true to one party, — an' thet 


life 


is himself; — 


Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their 


So John P. 


swaller-tail coats. 


Robinson he 


An' marched round in front of a drum an' 


Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. 


a fife, 




To git some on 'em office, an' some on 


Gineral C. he goes in fer the war; 


'em votes; 


He don't vally princerple morn 'n an old 


But John P. 


cud; 


Robinson he 


Wut did God make us raytional creeturs 


Sez they didn't know everythin' down 


fer, 


in Judee. 


But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' 




blood ? 


Wal, it 's a marcy we 've gut folks to tell 


So John P. 


us 


Robinson he 


The rights an' the wrongs o' these mat- 


Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. 


ters, I vow, — 




God sends country lawyers, an' other wise 


We were gittin' on nicely up here to our 


fellers. 


village. 


To start the world's team wen it gits in 


With good old ideas o' wut 's right an' 


a slough ; 


wut aint. 


Fer John P. 


We kind o' thought Christ went agin war 


Robinson he 


an' pillage, 


Sez the world '11 go right, ef he hollers 


An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark 


out Gee ! 


of a saint; 




But Jbhn P. 


THE candidate's LETTER 


Robinson he 




Sez this kind o' thing 's an exploded 


Dear Sir, — You wish to know my notions 


idee. 


On sartin pints thet rile the land; 




There 's nothin' thet my natur so shuns 


Xhe side of our country must oilers be 


Ez bein' mum or underhand; 


took, 


I 'm a straight-spoken kind o' creetur 


An' Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our 


Thet blurts right out wut 's in his head, 


country. 


An' ef I 've one pecooler feetur, 


An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a 


It is a nose thet wunt be led. 


book 




Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per 


So, to begin at the beginnin' 


contry; 


An' come direcly to the pint, 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



207 



I think the country's underpiunin' 

Is some consid'ble out o' jint; 
I aint ag'oin' to try your patience 

By tellin' who done this or thet, 
I don't make no insinooations, 

I jest let on I smell a rat. 

Thet is, I mean, it seems to me so, 

But, ef the public think I 'm wrong, 
I wunt deny but wut I be so, — 

An', fact, it don't smell very strong; 
My mind 's tu fair to lose its balance 

An' say wich party liez most sense; 
There may be folks o' greater talence 

Thet can't set stiddier on the fence. 

1 'm an eclectic; ez to ehoosin' 

'Twixt this an' thet, I 'ra plaguy lawth; 
I leave a side thet looks like losin', 

But (wile there 's doubt) I stick to both; 
I stan' upon the Constitution, 

Ez preudunt statesmun say, who've 
planned 
A way to git the most profusion 

O' chances ez to ware they 11 stand. 

Ez fer the war, I go agin it, — 

I mean to say I kind o' du, — 
Thet is, I mean thet, bein' in it, 

The best way wuz to fight it thru; 
Not but wut abstract war is horrid, 

I sign to thet with all my heart, — 
But civlyzatiou doos git forrid 

Sometimes upon a powder-cart. 

About thet darned Proviso matter 

I never hed a grain o' doubt. 
Nor I aint one my sense to scatter 

So 'st no one could n't pick it out; 
My love fer North an' South is equil. 

So I '11 jest answer plump an' frank, 
No matter wut may be the sequil, — 

Yes, Sir, I am agin a Bank. 

Ez to the answerin' o' questions, 

I 'm an off ox at bein' druv. 
Though I aint one thet ary test shuns 

I 'li give our folks a helpin' shove; 
Kind o' permiscoous I go it 

Fer the holl country, an' the ground 
I take, ez nigh ez I can show it. 

Is pooty gen'ally all round. 

I don't appruve o' givin' pledges; 
You 'd ough' to leave a feller free. 



An' not go knockin' out the i ~dges 
To ketch his fingers in tlv ^; 

Pledges air awfle breachy ci 1 

Thet preudunt farmers don-, ^urn out, — 

Ez long 'z the people git their rattle, 
Wut is there fer 'm to grout about ? 

Ez to the slaves, there 's no confusion 

In my idees consarnin' them, — 
/ think they air an Institution, 

A sort of — yes, jest so, — ahem: 
Do / own any ? Of my merit 

On thet pint you yourself may jedge; 
All is, I never drink no sperit. 

Nor I haint never signed no pledge. 

Ez to my prineerples, I glory 

In hevin' nothin' o' the sort; 
I aint a Wig, I aint a Tory, 

I 'm jest a canderdate, in short; 
Thet 's fair an' square an' parpendicler 

But, ef the Public cares a fig 
To hev me an'thin' in particler, 

Wy, I 'm a kind o' peri- Wig. 

P. S. 

Ez we 're a sort o' privateerin', 

O' course, you know, it 's sheer an' sheer, 
An' there is suthin' wnth your hearin' 

I '11 mention in your privit ear ; 
Ef you git me inside the White House, 

Your head with ile I '11 kin' o' 'nint 
By gittin' you inside the Light-house 

Down to the eend o' Jaalam Pint. 

An' ez the North hez took to brustlin' 

At bein' scrouged frum off the roost, 
I '11 tell ye wut '11 save all tusslin' 

An' give our side a harnsome boost, — 
Tell 'em thet on the Slavery question 

I 'm RIGHT, although to speak I 'm lawth; 
This gives you a safe pint to rest on. 

An' leaves me frontin' South by North. 

K t • '- '^^^ COURTIN' 

God makes sech nights, all white an' still 

Fur 'z you can look or listen. 
Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, 

All silence an' all glisten. 

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown 
An' peeked in thru the winder, 

An' there sot Huldy all alone, 
'ith no one nigh to bender. 



208 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



A fireplace filled the room's one side 
With half a cord o' wood iu — 

There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) 
To bake ye to a puddin'. 

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out 
Towards the pootiest, bless her, 

An' leetle flames danced all about 
The chiny on the dresser. 

Agin the chimbley crook-ngpks hung, 

Au' in amongst 'em rusted 
The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young 

Fetched back f 'om Concord busted. 

The very room, coz she was in, 

Seemed warm f om floor to ceilin', 

An' she looked full ez rosy agin 
Ez the apples she was peelin'. 

'T was kin' o' kingdom-come to look 

On sech a blessed cretur; 
A dogrose blushin' to a brook 

Ain't modester nor sweeter. 

He was six foot o' man, A 1, 

Clear grit an' human natur'; 
None could n't quicker pitch a ton 

Nor dror a furrer straighter. 

He 'd sparked it with full twenty gals, 
He 'd squired 'era, danced 'em, druv 
'em, 

Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells — 
All is, he could n't love 'em. 

But long o' her his veins 'ould run 

All crinkly like curled maple; 
The side she breshed felt full o' sun 

Ez a south slope in Ap'il. 

She thought no v'ice bed sech a swing 

Ez hisn in the choir; 
My ! when he made Ole Hunderd ring. 

She knowed the Lord was nigher. 

An' she 'd blush scarlit, right in prayer. 
When her new meetin'-bunnet 

Felt somehow thru its crown a pair 
O' blue eyes sot upun it. 

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some ! 

She seemed to 've gut a new soul, 
For she felt sartin-sure he 'd come, 

Down to her very shoe-sole. 



She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, 

A-raspin' on the scraper, — 
All ways to once her feelins flew 

Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 

He kin' o' I'itered on the mat, 

Some doubtfle o' the sekle; 
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, 

But hern went pity Zekle. 

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk 
Ez though she wished him furder, 

An' on her apples kep' to work, 
Parin' away like murder. 

" You want to see my Pa, I s'pose ? " 
" Wal ... no ... I come da- 
signin' " — 

" To see my Ma ? She 's sprinklin' clo'es 
Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." 

To say why gals acts so or so. 

Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; 
Mebby to mean yes an' say no 

Comes nateral to women. 

He stood a spell on one foot fust, 
Then stood a spell on t 'other, 

An' on which one he felt the wust 
He could n't ha' told ye nuther. 

Says he, " I 'd better call agin "; 

Says she, " Think likely. Mister "; 
Thet last word pricked him like a pin, 

An' . . . Wal, he up an' kist her. 

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, 

Huldy sot pale ez ashes, 
Ail kin' o' smily roun' the lips 

An' teary roun' the lashes. 

For she was jes' the quiet kind 

Whose naturs never vary. 
Like streams that keep a summer mind 

Snowhid in Jenooary. 

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued 

Too tight for all expressin'. 
Tell mother see how metters stood, 

An' gin 'em both her blessin'. 

Then her red come back like the tide 

Down to the Bay o' Fundy, 
An' all I know is they was cried 

In meetin' come nex' Sunday. 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



209 



MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE EDITOR OF 
"THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY" 

Whe^ie 's Peace ? I start, some clear- 
blown night, 

When gaunt stone walls grow numb an' 
number, 
An' creakin' 'cross the snow-crus' white. 

Walk the col' starlight into summer; 
Up grows the moon, an' swell by swell 

Thru the pale pasturs silvers dimmer 
Than the last smile thet strives to tell 

O' love gone heavenward in its shimmer. 

I hev ben gladder o' sech things 

Than cocks o' spring or bees o' clover. 
They filled my heart with livin' springs. 

But now they seem to freeze 'em over; 
Sights innercent ez babes on knee, 

Peaceful ez eyes o' pastur'd cattle, 
Jes' coz they be so, seem to me 

To rile me more with thoughts o' battle. 

Indoors an' out by spells I try; 

Ma'am Natur' keeps her spin-wheel goin', 
But leaves my natur' stiff and dry 

Ez flel's o' clover arter mowin' ; 
An' her jes' keepin' on the same. 

Calmer 'n a clock, an' never carin', 
An' findin' nary thing to blame. 

Is wus than ef she took to swearin'. 

Rat-tat-tat-tattle thru the street 

I hear the drummers makin' riot, 
An' I set thinkin' o' the feet 

Thet follered once an' now are quiet, — 
White feet ez snowdrops inuerceut, 

Thet never knowed the paths o' Satan, 
Whose comin' step ther 's ears thet won't. 

No, not lifelong, leave off awaitin'. 

Why, hain't I held 'em on my knee ? 

Didn't I love to see 'em growin', 
Thi*ee likely lads ez wal could be, 

Hahnsome an' brave an' not tu knowin' ? 
i set an' look into the blaze 

Whose natur', jes' like theirn, keeps 
climbin', 
Ez long 'z it lives, in shinin' ways. 

An' half despise myself for rhymin'. 

Wut 's words to them whose faith an' truth 
On War's red techstone rang true metal. 

Who ventered life an' love an' youth 
For the gret prize o' death in battle ? 



To him who, deadly hurt, agen 

Flashed on afore the charge's thunder, 

Tippin' with fire the bolt of men 
Thet rived the Rebel line asunder ? 

'Tain't right to hev the young go fust, 

All throbbin' full o' gifts an' graces, 
Leavin' life's paupers dry ez dust 

To try an' make b'lieve fill their places: 
Nothin' but tells us wut we miss, 

Ther 's gaps our lives can't never fay in, 
An' thet world seems so fur from this 

Lef ' for us loafers to grow gray in ! 

My eyes cloud up for rain; my mouth 

Will take to twitchin' roun' the corners; 
I pity mothers, tu, down South, 

For all they sot among the scorners: 
I 'd sooner take my chance to stan' 

At Jedgment where your meanest slave is. 
Than at God's bar hoi' up a han' 

Ez drippin' red ez yourn, Jeff Davis ! 

Come, Peace ! not like a mourner bowed 

For honor lost an' dear ones wasted, 
But proud, to meet a people proud. 

With eyes thet tell o' triumph tasted ! 
Come, with han' grippin' on the hilt. 

An' step thet proves ye Victory's 
daughter ! 
Longin' for you, our sperits wilt 

Like shipwrecked men's on raf's for 
water. 

Come, while our country feels the lift 

Of a gret instinct shoutin' " Forwards ! " 
An' knows thet freedom ain't a gift 

Thet tarries long in ban's o' cowards ! 
Come, sech ez mothers prayed for, when 

They kissed their cross with lips thet 
quivered. 
An' bring fair wages for brave men, 

A nation saved, a race delivered ! 



ODE RECITED AT THE HAR- 
VARD COMMEMORATION 

JULY 21, 1865 



Weak-winged is song, 
Nor aims at that clear-ethered height 
Whither the brave deed climbs for light: 

We seem to do them wrong. 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Bringing our robin's-leaf to deck their 

hearse 
Who in warm life-blood wrote their nobler 

verse, 
Our trivial song to honor those who come 
With ears attuned to strenuous trump and 

drum, 
And shaped in squadron-strophes their de- 
sire. 
Live battle-odes whose lines were steel 

and fire : 
Yet sometimes feathered words are 

strong, 
A gracious memory to buoy up and save 
From Lethe's dreamless ooze, the common 

grave 
Of the unventurous throngf. 



II 



To-day our Keverend Mother welcomes 

back 
Her wisest Scholars, those who under- 
stood 
The deeper teaching of her mystic tome, 
And offered their fresh lives to make it 
good: 
No lore of Greece or Rome, 
No science peddling with the names of 

things. 
Or reading stars to find inglorious fates, 

Can lift our life with wings 
Far from Death's idle gulf that for the 
many waits 
And lengthen out our dates 
With that clear fame whose memory 

sings 
In manly hearts to come, and nerves them 

and dilates: 
Nor such thy teaching, Mother of us all ! 
Not such the trumpet-call 
Of thy diviner mood, 
That could thy sons entice 
From happy homes and toils, the fruitful 

nest 
Of those half-virtues which the world calls 
best. 
Into War's tumult rude; 
But rather far that stern device 
The sponsors chose that round thy cradle 
stood 
In the dim, unventured wood. 
The VERITAS that lurks beneath 
The letter's unprolific sheath. 
Life of whate'er makes life worth living, 



Seed-grain of high emprise, immortal food, 
One heavenly thing whereof earth hath the 
giving. 



Many loved Truth, and lavished life's best 
oil 
Amid the dust of books to find her. 
Content at last, for guerdon of their toil. 
With the cast mantle she hath left be- 
hind her. 
Many in sad faith sought for her, 
Many with crossed hands sighed for 

her; 
But these, our brothers, fought for her, 
At life's dear peril wrought for her, 
So loved her that they died for her, 
Tasting the raptui-ed fleetness 
Of her divine completeness: 
Their higher instinct knew 
Those love her best who to themselves are 

true. 
And what they dare to dream of, dare to 
do; 
They followed her and found her 
Where all may hope to find. 
Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind, 
But beautiful, with danger's sweetness 
round her. 
Where faith made whole with deed 
Breathes its awakening breath 
Into the lifeless creed. 
They saw her plumed and mailed, 
With sweet, stern face unveiled. 
And all-repaying eyes, look proud on them 
in death. 



Our slender life runs rippling by, and 
glides 
Into the silent hollow of the past; 

What is there that abides 
To make the next age better for the 
last? 
Is earth too poor to give us 
Something to live for here that shall out- 
live us ? 
Some more substantial boon 
Than such as flows and ebbs with Fortune's 
fickle moon ? 
The little that we see 
From doubt is never free; 
The little that we do 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



Is but half-nobly true; 
With our laborious hiving 
What men call treasure, and the gods call 
dross, 
Life seems a jest of Fate's contriving, 
Only secure in every one's conniving, 
A long account of nothings paid with loss, 
Where we poor puppets, jerked by unseen 

wires, 
After our little hour of strut and rave, 
With all our pasteboard passions and de- 
sires. 
Loves, hates, ambitions, and immortal fires. 
Are tossed pell-mell together in the grave. 
But stay ! no age was e'er degenerate. 
Unless men held it at too cheap a rate. 
For in our likeness still we shape our fate. 
Ah, there is something here 
Unfathomed by the cynic's sneer, 
Something that gives our feeble light 
A high immunity from Night, 
Something that leaps life's narrow bars 
To claim its birthright with the hosts of 
heaven ; 
A seed of sunshine that can leaven 
Our earthly dullness with the beams of 
stars, 
And glorify our clay 
With light from fountains elder than the 
Day; 
A conscience more divine than we, 
A gladness fed with secret tears, 
A vexing, forward-reaching sense 
Of some more noble permanence; 
A light across the sea. 
Which haunts the soul and will not let it 

be, 
Still beaconing from the heights of unde- 
generate years. 



Whither leads the path 
To ampler fates that leads ? 
Not down through flowery meads, 
To reap an aftermath 
Of youth's vainglorious weeds. 
But up the steep, amid the wrath 
And shock of deadly-hostile creeds, 
Where the world's best hope and stay 
By battle's flashes gropes a desperate way. 
And every turf the fierce foot clings to 
bleeds. 
Peace hath her not ignoble wreath. 
Ere yet the sharp, decisive word 



Light the black lips of cannon, and the 
sword 
Dreams in its easeful sheath; 
But some day the live coal behind the 
thought, 
Whether from Baal's stone obscene, 
Or from the shrine serene 
Of God's pure altar brought, 
Bursts up in flame; the war of tongue 

and pen 
Learns with what deadly purpose it was 

fraught, 
And, helpless in the fiery passion caught. 
Shakes all the pillared state with shock 

of men: 
Some day the soft Ideal that we wooed 
Confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued. 
And cries reproachful: " Was it, then, my 

praise, 
And not myself was loved? Prove now 

thy truth; 
I claim of thee the promise of thy youth ; 
Give me thy life, or cower in empty phrase, 
The victim of thy genius, not its mate ! " 
Life may be given in many ways, 
And loyalty to Truth be sealed 
As bravely in the closet as the field, 
So bountiful is Fate; 
But then to stand beside her. 
When craven churls deride her. 
To front a lie in arms and not to yield, 
This shows, methinks, God's plan 
And measure of a stalwart man. 
Limbed like the old heroic breeds. 
Who stand self-poised on manhood's solid 

earth. 
Not forced to frame excuses for his birth, 
Fed from within with all the strength he 
needs. 



Such was he, our Martyr-Chief, 
Whom late the Nation he had led, 
With ashes on her head. 
Wept with the passion of an angry grief: 
Forgive me, if from present things I turn 
To speak what in my heart will beat and 

burn. 
And hang my wreath on his world-honored 
urn. 
Nature, they say, doth dote, 
And cannot make a man 
Save on some worn-out plan, 
Repeating us by rote: 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



For him her Old- World moulds aside she 

threw, 
And, choosing sweet clay from the breast 

Of the unexhausted West, 
With stuff untainted shaped a hero new, 
Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and 
true. 
How beautiful to see 
Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed, 
Who loved his charge, but never loved to 

lead; 
One whose meek flock the people joyed to 
be, 
Not lured by any cheat of birth. 
But by his clear-grained human worth. 
And brave old wisdom of sincerity ! 

They knew that outward grace is dust; 
They could not choose but trust 
In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill. 

And supple-tempered will 
That bent like perfect steel to spring again 

and thrust. 
His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind, 
Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy 

bars, 
A sea-mark now, now lost in vapor's blind; 
Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined, 
Fruitful and friendly for all human kind, 
Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of lofti- 
est stars. 
Nothing of Europe here. 
Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward 
still. 
Ere any names of Serf and Peer 
Could Nature's equal scheme deface 
And thwart her genial will; 
Here was a type of the true elder race. 
And one of Plutarch's men talked with us 
face to face. 
I praise him not; it were too late; 
And some innative weakness there must be 
In him who condescends to victory 
Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait. 
Safe in himself as in a fate. 
So always firmly he: 
He knew to bide his time. 
And can his fame abide. 
Still patient in his simple faith sublime, 
Till the wise years decide. 
Great captains, with their guns and 
drums. 
Disturb our judgment for the hour, 
But at last silence comes; 
These all are gone, and, standing like a 
tower, 



Our children shall behold his fame. 
The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man. 
Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not 

blame. 
New birth of our new soil, the first Ameri- 
can. 



Long as man's hope insatiate can discern 
Or only guess some more inspiring goal 
Outside of Self, enduring as the pole. 
Along whose course the flying axles burn 
Of spirits bravely-pitched, earth's manlier 

brood ; 
Long as below we cannot find 
The meed that stills the inexorable mind; 
So long this faith to some ideal Good, 
Under whatever mortal names it masks, 
Freedom, Law, Country, this ethereal mood 
That thanks the Fates for their severer 

tasks. 
Feeling its challenged pulses leap. 
While others skulk in subterfuges cheap. 
And, set in Danger's van, has all the boon 

it asks, 
Shall win man's praise and woman's love. 
Shall be a wisdom that we set above 
All other skills and gifts to culture dear, 
A virtue round whose forehead we in- 

wreathe 
Laurels that with a living passion breathe 
When other crowns grow, while we twine 

them, sear. 
What brings us thronging these high rites 

to pay. 
And seal these hours the noblest of our 

year, 
Save that our brothers found this better 

way? 

VIII 

We sit here in the Promised Land 
That flows with Freedom's honey and 

milk; 
But 't was they won it, sword in hand, 
Making the nettle danger soft for us as 

silk. 
We welcome back our bravest and our 

best; — 
Ah me ! not all ! some come not with the 

rest, 
Who went forth brave and bright as any 
here ! 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



213 



I strive to mix some gladness with my 
strain, 
But the sad strings complain, 
And will not please the ear: 
I sweep them for a pseau, but they wane 

Again and j^et again 
Into a dirge, and die away, in pain. 
In these brave ranks I only see the gaps. 
Thinking of dear ones whom the dumb turf 

wraps, 
Dark to the triumph which they died to 
gain: 
Fitlier may others greet the living, 
For me the past is unforgiving; 
I with uncovered head 
Salute the sacred dead. 
Who went, and who return not. — Say not 

so ! 
'Tis not the grapes of Canaan that repay. 
But the high faith that failed not by the 

way; 
Virtue treads paths that end not in the 

grave ; 
No bar of endless night exiles the brave ; 

And to the saner mind 
We rather seem the dead that stayed be- 
hind. 
Blow, trumpets, all your exultations blow ! 
For never shall their aureoled presence 

lack: 
I see them nmster in a gleaming row. 
With ever-youthful brows that nobler show; 
We find in our dull road their shining 
track ; 
In every nobler mood 
We feel the orient of their spirit glow, 
Part of our life's unalterable good. 
Of all our saintlier aspiration ; 

They come transfigured back. 
Secure from change in their high-hearted 

ways, 
Beautiful evermore, and with the rays 
Of morn on their white Shields of Expec- 
tation ! 



IX 



But is there hope to save 

Even this ethereal essence from the grave ? 

What ever 'scaped Oblivion's subtle wrong 

Save a few clarion names, or golden threads 

of song ? 

Before my musing eye 
The mighty ones of old sweep by, 
Disvoiced now and insubstantial things, 



As noisy once as we; poor ghosts of kings, 
Shadows of empire wholly gone to dust, 
And many races, nameless long ago. 
To darkness driven by that imperious gust 
Of ever-rushing Time that here doth blow: 
O visionary world, condition strange. 
Where naught abiding is but only Change, 
Where the deep-bolted stars themselves 

still shift and range ! 
Shall we to more continuance make pre- 
tence ? 
Renown builds tombs; a life-estate is Wit; 

And, bit by bit. 
The cunning years steal all from us but 

woe; 

Leaves are we, whose decays no harvest 

sow. 

But, when we vanish hence, 

Shall they lie forceless in the dark below. 

Save to make green their little length of 

sods. 
Or deepen pansies for a year or two, 
Who now to us are shining-sweet as gods ? 
Was dying all they had the skill to do ? 
That were not fruitless: but the Soul re- 
sents 
Such short-lived service, as if blind events 
Ruled without her, or earth could so en- 
dure ; 
She claims a more divine investiture 
Of longer tenure than Fame's airy rents; 
Whate'er she touches doth her nature 

share ; 
Her inspiration haunts the ennobled air, 

Gives eyes to mountains blind. 
Ears to the deaf earth, voices to the wind, 
And her clear trump sings succor every- 
where 
By lonely bivouacs to the wakeful mind; 
For soul inherits all that soul could dare: 

Yea, Manhood hath a wider span 
And larger privilege of life than man. 
The single deed, the private sacrifice, 
So radiant now through proudly-hidden 

tears. 
Is covered up erelong from mortal eyes 
With thoughtless drift of the deciduous 

years ; 
But that high privilege that makes all men 

peers. 
That leap of heart whereby a people rise 

Up to a noble anger's height. 
And, flamed on by the Fates, not shrink, but 

grow more bright. 
That swift validity in noble veins, 



214 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Of choosing danger and disdaining shame, 

Of being set on flame 
By the pure fire that flies all contact base 
But wraps its chosen with angelic might, 

These are imperishable gains, 
Siire as the sun, medicinal as light, 
These hold great futures in their lusty reins 
And certify to earth a new imperial race. 



Who now shall sneer ? 
Who dare again to say we trace 
Our lines to a plebeian race ? 
Roundhead and Cavalier ! 
Dumb are those names erewhile in battle 

loud; 
Dream-footed as the shadow of a cloud, 

They flit across the ear: 
That is best blood that hath most iron in "t 
To edge resolve with, pouring without stint 
For what makes manhood dear. 
Tell us not of Plantagenets, 
Hapsburgs, and Guelfs, whose thin bloods 

crawl 
Down from some victor in a border-brawl ! 

How poor their outworn coronets, 
Matched with one leaf of that plain civic 

wreath 
Our brave for honor's blazon shall bequeath, 
Through whose desert a rescued Nation sets 
Her heel on treason, and the trumpet hears 
Shout victory, tingling Europe's sullen ears 
With vain resentments and more vain 
regrets ! 



XI 



Not in anger, not in pride. 
Pure from passion's mixture rude 
Ever to base earth allied, 
But with far-heard gratitude, 
Still with heart and voice renewed, 
To heroes living and dear martyrs dead, 
The strain should close that consecrates 
our brave. 
Lift the heart and lift the head ! 
Lofty be its mood and grave. 
Not without a martial ring. 
Not without a prouder tread 
And a peal of exultation: 
Little right has he to sing 
Through whose heart in such an hour 
Beats no march of conscious power, 
Sweeps no tumult of elation ! 



T' is no Man we celebrate, 
By his country's victories great, 
A hero half, and half the whim of Fate, 

But the pith and marrow of a Nation 
Drawing force from all her men, 
Highest, humblest, weakest, all, 
For her time of need, and then 
Pulsing it again through them. 
Till the basest can no longer cower. 
Feeling his soul spring up divinely tall, 
Touched but in passing by her mantle-hem. 
Come back, then, noble pride, for 't is her 
dower ! 
How could poet ever tower. 
If his passions, hopes, and fears, 
If his triumphs and his tears. 
Kept not measure with his people ? 
Boom, cannon, boom to all the winds and 

waves ! 
Clash out, glad bells, from every rocking 

steeple ! 
Banners, a-dance with triumph, bend your 
staves ! 
And from every mountain-peak 
Let beacon-fire to answering beacon speak, 
Katahdin tell Monadnock, Whiteface he. 
And so leap on in light from sea to sea, 
Till the glad news be sent 
Across a kindling continent, 
Making earth feel more firm and air breathe 

braver : 
" Be proud ! for she is saved, and all have 

helped to save her ! 
She that lifts up the manhood of the poor, 
She of the open soul and open door, 
With room about her hearth for all man- 
kind! 
The fire is dreadful in her eyes no more; 
From her bold front the helm she doth un- 
bind, 
Sends all her handmaid armies back to spin. 
And bids her navies, that so lately hurled 
Their crashing battle, hold their thunders 

in, 
Swimming like birds of calm along the un- 

harmful shore. 
No challenge sends she to the elder world, 
That looked askance and hated; a light 

scorn 
Plays o'er her mouth, as round her mighty 

knees 
She calls her children back, and waits the 

morn 
Of nobler day, enthroned between her sub- 
ject seas." 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



215 



Bow down, dear Land, for thou hast found 
release ! 
Thy God, in these distempered days. 

Hath taught thee the sure wisdom of His 
ways, 

And through thine enemies hath wrought 
thy peace ! 
Bow down in prayer and praise ! 

No poorest in thy borders but may now 

Lift to the juster skies a man's enfran- 
chised brow. 

O Beautiful ! my Country ! ours once 
more ! 

Smoothing thy gold of war-dishevelled 
hair 

O'er such sweet brows as never other wore, 
And letting thy set lips, 
Freed from wrath's pale eclipse. 

The rosy edges of their smile lay bare. 

What words divine of lover or of poet 

Could tell our love and make thee know 

Among the Nations bright beyond com- 
pare ? 

What were our lives without thee ? 

What all our lives to save thee ? 

We reck not what we gave thee ; 

We will not dare to doubt thee, 
But ask whatever else, and we will dare ! 



THE FIRST SNOW-FALL 

The snow had begun in the gloaming, 

And busily all the night 
Had been heaping field and highway 

With a silence deep and white. 

Every pine and fir and hemlock 
Wore ermine too dear for an earl. 

And the poorest twig on the elm-tree 
Was ridged inch deep with pearl. 

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara 
Came Chanticleer's muffled crow, 

The stiff rails softened to swan's-down. 
And still fluttered down the snow. 

I stood and watched by the window 
The noiseless work of the sky. 

And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, 
Like brown leaves whirling by. 



I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 
Where a little headstone stood; 

How the flakes were folding it gently, 
As did robins the babes in the wood. 

Up spoke our own little Mabel, 

Saying, " Father, who makes it snow ? " 
And I told of the good All-father 

Who cares for us here below. 

Again I looked at the snow-fall. 
And thought of the leaden sky 

That arched o'er onr first great sorrow. 
When that mound was heaped so high. 

I remembered the gradual patience 
That fell from that cloud like snow, 

Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
The scar that renewed our woe. 

And again to the child I whispered, 

" The snow that husheth all. 
Darling, the merciful Father 

Alone can make it fall ! " 

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed 
her ; 

And she, kissing back, could not know 
That my kiss was given to her sister. 

Folded close under deepening snow. 



INTERNATIONAL COPYRIGHT 

In vain we call old notions fudge, 

And bend our conscience to our deal- 
ing; 

The Ten Commandments will not budge. 
And stealing will continue stealing. 



IN A COPY OF OMAR KHAYyXm 

These pearls of thought in Persian gulfs 

were bred. 
Each softly lucent as a rounded moon ; 
The diver Omar plucked them from their 

bed, 
Fitzgerald strung them on an English 

thread. 

Fit rosary for a queen, in shape and 

hue. 
When Contemplation tells her pensive 

beads 



2l6 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Of mortal thoughts, forever old and new. 
Fit for a queen ? Why, surely then for 
you! 

The moral ? Where Doubt's eddies toss 

and twirl 
Faith's slender shallop till her footing reel. 
Plunge : if you find not peace beneath the 

whirl, 
Groping, you may like Omar grasp a pearl. 



AUF WIEDERSEHEN 

SUMMER 

The little gate was reached at last, 
Half hid in lilacs down the lane; 
She pushed it wide, and, as she past, 
A wistful look she backward cast. 
And said, — ^^ Auf wiedersehen J " 

With hand on latch, a vision white 

Lingered reluctant, and again 
Half doubting if she did aright. 
Soft as the dews that fell that night, 
She said, — " Auf wiedersehen ! " 

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair; 

I linger in delicious pain; 
Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air 
To breathe in thought I scarcely dare. 

Thinks she, — " Auf wiedersehen ! " 

' T is thirteen years ; once more I press 
The turf that silences the lane; 

I hear the rustle of her dress, 
I smell the lilacs, and — ah, yes, 
I hear, — " Auf wiedersehen ! " 

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! 

The English words had seemed too fain. 
But these — they drew us heart to heart. 
Yet held us tenderly apart; 

She said, — " Auf wiedersehen J " 



PALINODE 

AUTUMN 

Still thirteen years: 't is autumn now 
On field and hill, in heart and brain; 

The naked trees at evening sough; 

The leaf to the forsaken bough 
Sighs not, — " A uf wiedersehen ! " 



Two watched yon oriole's pendent dome. 
That now is void, and dank with rain. 

And one, — oh, hope more frail than 
foam ! 

The bird to his deserted home 
Sings not, — "Auf wiedersehen ! " 

The loath gate swings with rusty creak ; 

Once, parting there, we played at pain; 
There came a parting, when the weak 
And fading lips essayed to speak 

Vainly, — " Auf wiedersehen ! " 

Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith. 

Though thou in outer dark remain; 
One sweet sad voice ennobles death. 
And still, for eighteen centuries saith 
Softly, — " Auf wiedersehen ! " 

If earth another grave must bear, 

Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain, 
And something whispers my despair, 
That, from an orient chamber there. 
Floats down, — "Auf wiedersehen! " 



AFTER THE BURIAL 

Yes, faith is a goodly anchor; 

When skies are sweet as a psalm, 
At the bows it lolls so stalwart. 

In its bluff, broad-shouldered calm. 

And when over breakers to leeward 
The tattered surges are hurled. 

It may keep our head to the tempest. 
With its grip on the base of the world. 

But, after the shipwreck, tell me 

What help in its iron thews. 
Still true to the broken hawser, 

Deep down among sea-weed and ooze ? 

In the breaking gulfs of sorrow, 
When the helpless feet stretch out 

And find in the deeps of darkness 
No footing so solid as doubt. 

Then better one spar of Memory, 
One broken plank of the Past, 

That our human heart may cling to, 
Though hopeless of shore at last ! 

To the spirit its splendid conjectures, 
To the flesh its sweet despair. 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



217 



Its tears o'er the thin-worn locket 
With its anguish of deathless hair ! 

Immortal ? I feel it and know it, 
Who doubts it of such as she ? 

But that is the pang's very secret, — 
Immortal away from me. 

There 's a narrow ridge in the graveyard 
Would scarce stay a child in his race, 

But to me and my thought it is wider 
Than the star-sown vague of Space. 

Your logic, my friend, is perfect, 
Your moral most drearily true; 

But, since the earth clashed on her coffin, 
I keep hearing that, and not you. 

Console if you will, I can bear it; 

'T is a well-meant alms of breath ; 
But not all the preaching since Adam 

Has made Death other than Death. 

It is pagan; but wait till you feel it, — 
That jar of our earth, that dull shock 

When the ploughshare of deeper passion 
Tears down to our primitive rock. 

Communion in spirit ! Forgive me, 
But I, who am earthly and weak. 

Would give all my incomes from dream- 
land 
For a touch of her hand on my cheek. 

That little shoe in the corner. 

So worn and wrinkled and brown, 

With its emptiness confutes you, 
And argues your wisdom down. 



IN THE TWILIGHT 

Men say the sullen instrument. 
That, from the Master's bow. 
With pangs of joy or woe, 
Feels music's soul through every fibre 
sent. 
Whispers the ravished strings 
More than he knew or meant; 

Old summers in its memory glow; 
The secrets of the wind it sings; 
It hears the April-loosened springs; 
And mixes with its mood 
All it dreamed when it stood 
In the murmurous pine-wood 
Long ago ! 



The magical moonlight then 

Steeped every bough and cone; 
The roar of the brook in the glen 

Came dim from the distance blown; 
The wind through its glooms sang low, 
And it swayed to and fro 
With delight as it stood 
In the wonderful wood, 
Long ago ! 

O my life, have we not had seasons 
That only said, Live and rejoice ? 
That asked not for causes and reasons, 
But made us all feeling and voice ? 
When we went with the winds in their 
blowing, 
When Nature and we were peers. 
And we seemed to share in the flowing 
Of the inexhaustible years ? 
Have we not from the earth drawn juices 
Too fine for earth's sordid uses ? 
Have I heard, have I seen 
All I feel, all I know ? 
Doth my heart overween ? 
Or could it have been 
Long ago ? 

Sometimes a breath floats by me. 
An odor from Dreamland sent. 
That makes the ghost seem nigh me 
Of a splendor that came and went, 
Of a life lived somewhere, I know not 

In what diviner sphere. 
Of memories that stay not and go not, 
Like music heard once by an ear 
That cannot forget or reclaim it, 
A something so shy, it would shame it 

To make it a show, 
A something too vague, could I name it, 

For others to know, 
As if I had lived it or dreamed it, 
As if I had acted or schemed it, 
Long ago ! 

And yet, could I live it over. 

This life that stirs in my brain, 
Could I be both maiden and lover, 
Moon and tide, bee and clover. 

As I seem to have been, once again. 
Could I but speak it and show it. 
This pleasure more sharp than pain. 
That baffles and lures me so. 
The world should once more have a poet. 
Such as it had 
In the ages glad, 

Long ago ! 



2l8 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



AN AUTOGRAPH 

O'er the wet sands an insect crept 
Ages ere man on earth was known — 
And patient Time, while Nature slept, 
The slender tracing turned to stone. 



'T was the first autograph : and ours ? 
Prithee, how much of prose or song, 
In league with the creative powers. 
Shall 'scape Oblivion's broom so long. 

24th June, 1886, 



SBilliam H^ctmorc Motp 



CLEOPATRA 

Here, Charmian, take my bracelets: 

They bar with a purple stain 
My arms; turn over my pillows — 

They are hot where I have lain: 
Open the lattice wider, 

A gauze o'er my bosom throw, 
And let me inhale the odors 

That over the garden blow. 

I dreamed I was with my Antony, 

And in his arms I lay; 
Ah, me ! the vision has vanished — 

The music has died away. 
The flame and the perfume have perished — 

As this spiced aromatic pastille 
That wound the blue smoke of its odor 

Is now but an ashy hill. 

Scatter upon me rose leaves. 

They cool me after my sleep, 
And with sandal odors fan me 

Till into my veins they creep; 
Reach down the lute, and play me 

A melancholy tune, 
To rhyme with the dream that has vanished 

And the slumbering afternoon. 

There, drowsing in golden sunlight, 

Loiters the slow smooth Nile, 
Through slender papyri, that cover 

The wary crocodile. 
The lotus lolls on the water, 

And opens its heart of gold. 
And over its broad leaf pavement 

Never a ripple is rolled. 
The twilight breeze is too lazy 

Those feathery palms to wave, 
And yon little cloud is as motionless 

As a stone above a grave. 

Ah, me ! this lifeless nature 
Oppresses my heart and brain ! 



Oh ! for a storm and thunder — 
For lightning and wild fierce rain ! 

Fling down that lute — I hate it ! 
Take rather his buckler and sword, 

And crash them and clash them together 
Till this sleeping world is stirred. 

Hark ! to my Indian beauty — 

My cockatoo, creamy white. 
With roses under his feathers — 

That flashes across the light. 
Look ! listen ! as backward and forward 

To his hoop of gold he clings. 
How he trembles, with crest uplifted, 

And shrieks as he madly swings ! 
Oh, cockatoo, shriek for Antony ! 
Cry, " Come, my love, come liome ! " 
Shriek, " Antony ! Antony ! Antony ! " 

Till he hears you even in Rome. 

There — leave me, and take from my 
chamber 

That stupid little gazelle. 
With its bright black eyes so meaning- 
less. 

And its silly tinkling bell ! 
Take him, — my nerves he vexes — 

The thing without blood or brain, 
Or, by the body of Isis, 

I'll snap his thin neck in twain ! 

Leave me to gaze at the landscape 

Mistily stretching away. 
Where the afternoon's opaline tremors 
■ O'er the mountains quivering play; 
Till the fiercer splendor of sunset 

Pours from the west its fire, 
And melted, as in a crucible, 

Their earthy forms expire; 
And the bald blear skull of the desert 

With glowing mountains is crowned, 
That burning like molten jewels 

Circle its temples round. 



WILLIAM WETMORE STORY 



219 



I will lie and dream of the past time, 

JEons of thought awaj'^, 
And through the jungle of memory 

Loosen my fancy to play; 
When, a smooth and velvety tiger. 

Ribbed with yellow and black. 
Supple and cushion-footed 

I wandered, where never the track 
Of a human creature had rustled 

The silence of mighty woods, 
And, fierce in a tyrannous freedom, 

I knew but the law of my moods. 
The elephant, trumpeting, started. 

When he heard my footstep near. 
And the spotted giraffes fled wildly 

In a yellow cloud of fear. 
I sucked in the noontide splendor, 

Quivering along the glade, 
Or yawning, panting, and dreaming. 

Basked in the tamarisk shade. 
Till I heard my wild mate roaring. 

As the shadows of night came on 
To brood in the trees' thick branches. 

And the shadow of sleep was gone ; 
Then I roused, and roared in answer. 

And unsheathed from my cushioned feet 
My curving claws, and stretched me. 

And wandered my mate to greet. 
We toyed in the amber moonlight, 

Upon the warm flat sand. 
And struck at each other our massive 
arms — 

How powerful he was and grand ! 
His yellow eyes flashed fiercely 

As he crouched and gazed at me. 
And his quivering tail, like a serpent, 

Twitched curving nervously. 
Then like a storm he seized me. 

With a wild triumphant cry. 
And we met, as two clouds in heaven 

When the thunders before them fly. 
We grappled and struggled together. 

For his love like his rage was rude; 
And his teeth in the swelling folds of my 
neck 

At times, in our play, drew blood. 

Often another suitor — 

For I was flexile and fair — 
Fought for me in the moonlight. 

While I lay couching there. 
Till his blood was drained by the desert; 

And, ruffled with triumph and power. 
He licked me and lay beside me 

To breathe him a vast half-hour. 



Then down to the fountain we loitered, 

Where the antelopes came to drink; 
Like a bolt we sprang upon them. 

Ere they had time to shrink. 
We drank their blood and crushed them, 

And tore them limb from limb, 
And the hungriest lion doubted 

Ere he disputed with him. 

That was a life to live for ! 

Not this weak human life. 
With its frivolous bloodless passions, 

Its poor and petty strife ! 

Come to my arms, my hero ! 

The shadows of twilight grow. 
And the tiger's ancient fierceness 

In my veins begins to flow. 
Come not cringing to sue me ! 

Take me with triumph and power, 
As a warrior storms a fortress ! 

I will not shrink or cower. 
Come, as you came in the desert, 

Ere we were women and men. 
When the tiger passions were in us. 

And love as you loved me then ! 

10 VICTIS 

I SING the hymn of the conquered, who fell 
in the Battle of Life, — 

The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who 
died overwhelmed in the strife; 

Not the jubilant song of the victors, for 
whom the resounding acclaim 

Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose 
brows wore the chaplet of fame. 

But the hymn of the low and the humble, 
the weary, the broken in heart. 

Who strove and who failed, acting bravely 
a silent and desperate part; 

AVhose youth bore no flower on its branches, 
whose hopes burned iii ashes away. 

From whose hands slipped the prize they 
had grasped at, who stood at the 
dying of day 

With the wreck of their life all around 
them, unpitied, unheeded, alone. 

With Death swooping down o'er their fail- 
ure, and all but their • faith over- 
thrown. 

While the voice of the world shouts its 
chorus, — its pgean for those who 
have won; 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, 
and high to the breeze and the sun 

Glad banners are waving, hands clapping, 
and hurrying feet 

Thronging after the laurel-crowned vic- 
tors, I stand on the field of de- 
feat. 

In the shadow, with those who have fallen, 
and wounded, and dying, and there 

Chant a requiem low, place my hand on 
their pain-knotted brows, breathe a 
prayer. 

Hold the hand that is helpless, and whisper, 
" They only the victory win, 

Who have fought the good fight, and have 
vanquished the demon that tempts 
us within; 

Who have held to their faith unseduced 
by the prize that the world holds on 
high; 

Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, 
resist, fight, — if need be, to die." 

Speak, History ! who are Life's victors ? 

Unroll thy long annals, and say. 
Are they those whom the world called the 

victors — who won the success of a 

day? 
The martyrs, or Nero ? The Spartans, 

who fell at Thermopylae's tryst. 
Or the Persians and Xerxes ? His judges 

or Socrates ? Pilate or Christ ? 



PRAXITELES AND PHRYNE 

A THOUSAND silent years ago. 

The twilight faint and pale 
Was drawing o'er the sunset glow 

Its soft and shadowy veil; 

When from his work the Sculptor stayed 
His hand, and, turned to one 

Who stood beside him, half in shade, 
Said, with a sigh, " 'T is done. 



" Thus much is saved from chance and 
change. 

That waits for me and thee ; 
Thus much — how little ! — from the range 

Of Death and Destiny. 

" Phryne, thy human lips shall pale, 

Thy rounded limbs decay, — 
Nor love nor prayers can aught avail 

To bid thy beauty stay; 

" But there thy smile for centuries 

On marble lips shall live, — 
For Art can grant what Love denies, 

And fix the fugitive. 

" Sad thought ! nor age nor death shall fade 

The youth of this cold bust; 
When this quick brain and hand that made, 

And thou and I are dust ! 

" When all our hopes and fears are dead, 

And both our hearts are cold. 
And love is like a tune that 's played, 

And life a tale that 's told, 

" This senseless stone, so coldly fair. 

That love nor life can warm, 
The same enchanting look shall wear, 

The same enchanting form. 

" Its peace no sorrow shall destroy; 

Its beauty age shall spare 
The bitterness of vanished joy, 

The wearing waste of care. 

" And there upon that silent face 

Shall unborn ages see 
Perennial youth, perennial grace, 

And sealed serenity. 

" And strangers, when we sleep in peace, 

Shall say, not quite unmoved, 
' So smiled upon Praxiteles 

The Phryne whom he loved ! ' " 



3[ulia Watti l^olte 



BATTLE-HYMN OF 
PUBLIC 



THE RE- 



MiNE eyes have seen the glory of the com- 
ing of the Lord: 



He is trampling out the vintage where the 

grapes of wrath are stored; 
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his 
terrible swift sword: 
His truth is marching on. 



JULIA WARD HOWE — WALT WHITMAN 



I have seen Him in tlie watch-fires of a 

hundred circling camps; 
They have builded Him an altar in the 

evening dews and damps; 
I can read His righteous sentence by the 

dim and flaring lamps. 
His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished 

rows of steel: 
" As ye deal with my contemners, so with 

you my grace shall deal; 
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the 

serpent with his heel. 
Since God is marching on." 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that 

shall never call retreat; 
He is sifting out the hearts of men before 

his judgment-seat: 
Oh ! be swift, my soul, to answer Him ! be 

jubilant, my feet ! 
Our God is marching on. 

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born 

across the sea. 
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures 

you and me : 
As he died to make men holy, let us die to 

make men free, 
While God is marching on. 



OUR ORDERS 

Weave no more silks, ye Lyons looms, 
To deck our girls for gay delights ! 

The crimson flower of battle blooms. 
And solemn marches fill the night. 

Weave but the flag whose bars to-day 
Drooped heavy o'er our early dead, 

And homely garments, coarse and gray, 
For orphans that must earn theii- bread 1 

Keep back your tunes, ye viols sweet, 
That poured delight from other lands 1 

Rouse there the dancer's restless feet: 
The trumpet leads our warrior bands. 

And ye that wage the war of words 
With mystic fame and subtle power, 

Go, chatter to the idle birds. 

Or teach the lesson of the hour ! 

Ye Sibyl Arts, in one stern knot 

Be all your offices combined ! 
Stand close, while Courage draws the lot, 

The destiny of human kind. 

And if that destiny could fail, 

The sun should darken in the sky. 

The eternal bloom of Nature pale, 

And God, and Truth, and Freedom die I 



It^alt IBJjitman 



BEGINNERS 

How they are provided for upon the earth 

(appearing at intervals). 
How dear and dreadful they are to the 

earth, 
How they inure to themselves as much as 

to any, what a paradox appears their 

age, 
How people respond to them, yet know 

them not, 
How there is something relentless in their 

fate all times. 
How all times mischoose the objects of 

their adulation and reward, 
And how the same inexorable price must 

still be paid for the same great 

purchase. 



STILL THOUGH THE ONE I 
SING 

Still though the one I sing, 

(One, yet of contradictions made) I dedi- 
cate to Nationality, 

I leave in him revolt, (O latent right of in- 
surrection ! O quenchless, indis- 
pensable fire !) 

FROM "THE SONG OF MYSELF" 

MYSELF 

I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself. 
And what I assume you shall assume. 
For every atom belonging to me as good 
belongs to you. 



222 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



I loaf and invite my soul, 
I lean and loaf at my ease observing a 
spear of summer grass. 

My tongue, every atom of my blood, formed 
from this soil, this air, 

Born here of parents born here from pa- 
rents the same, and their parents 
the san>e, 

Ij DOW thirty-seven years old in perfect 
health begin. 

Hoping to cease not till death. 

Creeds and schools in abeyance, 

Retiring back av?hile sufficed at what they 

are, but never forgotten, 
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to 

speak at every hazard, 
Nature without check with original energy. 

LEAVES OF GRASS 

A child said What is the grass f fetching it 

to me with full hands; 
How could I answer the child ? I do not 

know what it is any more than he. 

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, 
out of hopeful green stuff woven. 

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the 
Lord, 

A scented gift and remembrancer de- 
signedly dropped, 

Bearing the owner's name someway in the 
corners, that we may see and re- 
mark, and say Whose ? 

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the 
produced babe of the vegetation. 

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic. 
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad 

zones and narrow zones, 
Growing among black folks as among white, 
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuflf, I 

give them the same, I receive them 

the same. 

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut 
hair of graves. 

Tenderly will I use you curling grass, 
It may be you transpire from the breasts 
of young men, 



It may be if I had known them I would 

have loved them. 
It may be you are from old people, or from 

offspring taken soon out of their 

mothers' laps, 
And here you are the mothers' laps. 

This grass is very dark to be from the 
white heads of old mothers, 

Darker than the colorless beards of old 
men. 

Dark to come from under the faint red 
roofs of mouths. 

I perceive after all so many uttering 

tongues, 
And I perceive they do not come from the 
roofs of mouths for nothing. 

1 wish I could translate the hints about the 

dead young men and women. 
And the hints about old men and mothers, 
and the offspring taken soon out of 
their laps. 

What do you think has become of the young 

and old men ? 
And what do you think has become of the 

women and children ? 

They are alive and well somewhere,- 

The smallest sprout shows there is really 
no death. 

And if ever there was it led forward life, 
and does not wait at the end to ar- 
rest it, 

And ceased the moment life appeared. 

All goes onward and outward, nothing col- 
lapses, 

And to die is different from what any one 
supposed, and luckier. 

I know I am deathless, 

I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept 

by a carpenter's compass, 
I know I shall not pass like a child's carla- 

cue cut with a burnt stick at night. 

One world is away and by far the largest 
to me, and that is myself, 

And whether I come to my own to-day or 
in ten thousand or ten million years, 

I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal 
cheerfulness I can wait. 



WALT WHITMAN 



223 



My foothold is tenoned and mortised in 

granite, 
I laugh at what you call dissolution, 
And I know the amplitude of time. 



HEROES 

I UNDERSTAND the large hearts of heroes, 
The courage of present times and all times, 
How the skipper saw the crowded and 

rudderless wreck of the steamship, 

and Death chasing it up and down 

the storm. 
How he knuckled tight and gave not back 

an inch, and was faithful of days 

and faithful of nights, 
And chalked in large letters on a board. 

Be of good cheer, we tvill not desert 

you ; 
How he followed with them and tacked 

with them three days and would not 

give it up, 
How he saved the drifting company at last, 
How the lank loose-gowned women looked 

when boated from the side of their 

prepared graves, 
How the silent old-faced infants, and the 

lifted sick, and the sharp-lipped un- 

shaved men; 
All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it 

well, it becomes mine, 
I am the man, I suffered, I was there. 

Agonies are one of my changes of gar- 
ments, 

I do not ask the wounded person how he 
feels, I myself become the wounded 
person. 

My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a 
cane and observe. 

I am the mashed fireman with breast-bone 

broken. 
Tumbling walls buried me in their debris. 
Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the 

yelling shouts of my comrades, 
I heard the distant click of their picks and 

shovels ; 
They have cleared the beams away, they 

tenderly lift me forth. 

I lie in the night air in my red shirt, the 
pervading hush is for my sake. 

Painless after all I lie exhausted but not 
so unhappy, 



White and beautiful are the faces around 
me, the heads are bared of their fire- 
caps. 

The kneeling crowd fades with the light of 
the torches. 

Distant and dead resuscitate, 
They show as the dial or move as the hands 
of me, I am the clock myself. 

I am an old artillerist, I tell of my fort's 

bombardment, 
I am there again. 

Again the long roll of the drummers, 
Again the attacking cannon, mortars. 
Again to my listening ears the cannon re- 
sponsive. 

I take part, I see and hear the whole. 
The cries, curses, roar, the plaudits for 

well-aimed shots. 
The ambulanza slowly passing trailing its 

red drip, 
Workmen searching after damages, making 

indispensable repairs. 
The fall of grenades through the rent roof, 

the fan-shaped explosion, 
The whizz of limbs, heads, stone, wood, 

iron, high in the air. 

Again gurgles the mouth of my dying gen- 
eral, he furiously waves with his 
hand. 

He gasps through the clot Mind not me — 
mind — the entrenchments. 

Would you hear of an old-time sea-fight ? 
Would you learn who won by the light of 

the moon and stars ? 
List to the yarn, as my grandmother's 

father the sailor told it to me. 

Our foe was no skulk in his ship I tell you, 

(said he) 
His was the surly English pluck, and there 

is no tougher or truer, and never 

was, and never will be; 
Along the lowered eve he came horribly 

raking us. 

We closed with him, the yards entangled, 

the cannon touched, 
My captain lashed fast with his own 

hands. 



224- 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



We had received some eighteen pound 
shots under the water, 

On our lower gun-deck two large pieces 
had burst at the first fire, killing all 
around and blowing up overhead. 

Fighting at sun-down, fighting at dark, 
Ten o'clock at night, the full moon well 

up, our leaks on the gain, and five 

feet of water reported. 
The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners 

confined in the after-hold to give 

them a chance for themselves. 

The transit to and from the magazine is 
now stopped by the sentinels. 

They see so many strange faces they do not 
know whom to trust. 

Our frigate takes fire, 
The other asks if we demand quarter ? 
If our colors are struck and the fighting 
done ? 

Now I laugh content for I hear the voice 

of my little captain. 
We have not struck, he composedly cries, we 

have just begun our part of the fighting. 

Only three guns are in use, 

One is directed by the captain himself 

against the enemy's mainmast, 
Two well served with grape and canister 

silence his musketry and clear his 

decks. 

The tops alone second the fire of this little 
battery, especially the main-top, 

They hold out bravely during the whole of 
the action. 

Not a moment's cease, 
The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire 
eats toward the powder-magazine. 

One of the pumps has been shot away, it is 
generally thought we are sinking. 

Serene stands the little captain, 

He is not hurried, his voice is neither high 

nor low. 
His eyes give more light to us than our 

battle-lanterns. 

Toward twelve there in the beams of the 
moon they surrender to us. 



INFINITY 

My feet strike an apex of the apices of the 

stairs. 
On every step bunches of ages, and larger 

bunches between the steps. 
All below duly travelled, and still I mount 

and mount. 

Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind 

me. 
Afar down I see the huge first Nothing I 

know I was even there, 
I waited unseen and always, and slept 

through the lethargic mist. 
And took my time, and took no hurt from 

the fetid carbon. 

Long I was hugged close — long and 
long. 

Immense have been the preparations for 

me. 
Faithful and friendly the arms that have 

helped me. 
Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing 

like cheerful boatmen. 
For room to me stars kept aside in their 

own rings. 
They sent influences to look after what was 

to hold me. 

Before I was born out of my mother gen- 
erations guided me, 

My embryo has never been torpid, nothing 
could overlay it. 

For it the nebula cohered to an orb. 
The long slow strata piled to rest it on, 
Vast vegetables gave it sustenance. 
Monstrous sauroids transported it in their 
mouths and deposited it with care. 

All forces have been steadily employed to 

complete and delight me, 
Now on this spot I stand with my robust 

soul. 

Old age superbly rising ! welcome, in- 
effable grace of dying days ! 

Every condition promulges not only itself, 
it promulges what grows after and 
out of itself. 

And the dark hush promulges as much as 
any. 



WALT WHITMAN 



225 



I open my scuttle at night and see the far- 
sprinkled systems, 

And all I see multiplied as high as I can 
cipher edge but the rim of the far- 
ther systems. 

Wider and wider they spread, expanding, 
always expanding, 

Outward and outward and forever outward. 

My sun has his sun and round him obedi- 
ently wheels. 

He joins with his partners a group of su- 
perior circuit, 

And greater sets follow, making specks of 
the greatest inside them. 

There is no stoppage and never can be 

stoppage, 
If I, you, and the worlds, and all beneath 

or upon their surfaces, were this 

moment reduced back to a pallid 

float, it would not avail in the long 

run. 
We should surely bring up again where we 

now stand, 
And surely go as much farther, and then 

farther and farther. 

A few quadrillions of eras, a few octillions 
of cubic leagues, do not hazard the 
span or make it impatient, 

They are but parts, anything is but a part. 

See ever so far, there is limitless space out- 
side of that. 

Count ever so much, there is limitless time 
around that. 

My rendezvous is appointed, it is certain, 
The Lord will be there and wait till I come 

on perfect terms. 
The great Camerado, the lover true for 

whom I pine will be there. 



GIVE ME THE SPLENDID 
SILENT SUN 

Give me the splendid silent sun with all 

his beams full-dazzling. 
Give me juicy autumnal fruit ripe and red 

from the orchard. 
Give me a field where the unmowed grass 

grows, 



Give me an arbor, give me the trellised 
grape. 

Give me fresh corn and wheat, give me se- 
rene-moving animals teaching con- 
tent. 

Give me nights perfectly quiet as on high 
plateaus west of the Mississippi, and 
I looking up at the stars. 

Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of 
beautiful flowers where I can walk 
undisturbed, 

Give me for marriage a sweet-breathed 
womau of whom I should never tire, 

Give me a perfect child, give me, away 
aside from the noise of the world, a 
rural domestic life, 

Give me to warble spontaneous songs re- 
cluse by myself, for my own ears 
only, 

Give me solitude, give me Nature, give me 
again O Nature your primal sani- 
ties ! 

These demanding to have them, (tired with 
ceaseless excitement, and racked by 
the war-strife) 

These to procure incessantly asking, rising 
in cries from my heart, 

While yet incessantly asking still I adhere 
to my city. 

Day upon day and year upon year, O city, 
walking your streets, 

Where you hold me enchained a certain 
time refusing to give me up. 

Yet giving to make me glutted, enriched of 
soul, you give me forever faces; 

(O I see what I sought to escape, con- 
fronting, reversing my cries, 

I see my own soul trampling down what it 
asked for.) 



Keep your splendid silent sun, 

Keep your woods, O Nature, and the quiet 
places by the woods, 

Keep your fields of clover and timothy, 
and your corn-fields and orchards. 

Keep the blossoming buckwheat fields 
where the Ninth-month bees hum; 

Give me faces and streets — give me these 
phantoms incessant and endless along 
the trottoirs ! 

Give me interminable eyes — give me wo- 
men — give me comrades and lov- 
ers by the thousand ! 



226 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Let me see new ones every day — let me 

hold new ones by the hand every 

day ! 
Give me such shows — give me the streets 

of Manhattan ! 
Give me Broadway, with the soldiers 

marching — give me the sound of 

the trumpets and drums ! 
(The soldiers in companies or regiments — 

some starting away flushed and 

reckless, 
Some, their time up, returning with thinned 

ranks, young, yet very old, worn, 

marching, noticing nothing;) 
Give me the shores and wharves heavy- 
fringed with black ships ! 
O such for me ! O an intense life, full to 

repletion and varied ! 
The life of the theatre, bar-room, huge 

hotel, for me ! 
Tbe saloon of the steamer ! The crowded 

excursion for me ! The torchlight 

procession ! 
The dense brigade bound for the war, with 

high-piled military wagons follow- 
ing; 
People, endless, streaming, with strong 

voices, passions, pageants, 
Manhattan streets with their powerful 

throbs, with beating drums as now, 
The endless and noisy chorus, the rustle 

and clank of muskets (even the sight 

of the wounded), 
Manhattan crojvds, with their turbulent 

musical chorus ! 
Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me. 



MANNAHATTA 

1 WAS asking for something specific and 

perfect for my city. 
Whereupon lo ! upsprang the aboriginal 



Now I see what there is in a name, a word, 
liquid, sane, unruly, musical, self- 
sufficient, 

I see that the word of my city is that word 
from of old. 

Because I see that word nested in nests of 
water-bays, superb, 

Rich, hemmed thick all around with sail 
ships and steam ships, an island six- 
teen miles long, solid-founded, 



Numberless crowded streets, high growths 
of iron, slender, strong, light, splen- 
didly uprising toward clear skies, 

Tides swift and ample, well-loved by me, 
towards sundown, 

The flowing sea-currents, the little islands, 
larger adjoining islands, the heights, 
the villas, 

The countless masts, the white shore-steam- 
ers, the lighters, the ferry-boats, the 
black sea-steamers well-modelled, 

The down-town streets, the jobbers' houses 
of business, the houses of business 
of the ship-merchants and money- 
brokers, the river-streets, 

Immigrants arriving, fifteen or twenty 
thousand in a week, 

The carts hauling goods, the manly race of 
drivers of horses, the brown-faced 
sailors, 

The summer air, the bright sun shining, and 
the sailing clouds aloft, 

The winter snows, the sleigh-bells, the 
broken ice in the river, passing along 
up or down with the flood-tide or 
ebb-tide. 

The mechanics of the city, the masters, 
well-formed, beautiful-faced, look- 
ing you straight in the eyes, 

Trottoirs thronged, vehicles, Broadway, 
the women, the shops and shows, 

A million people — manners free and su- 
perb — open voices — hospitality — 
the most courageous and friendly 
young men. 

City of hurried and sparkling waters ! city 
of spires and masts ! 

City nested in bays ! my city ! 



FROM "CROSSING BROOKLYN 
FERRY " 

Ah, what can ever be more stately and ad- 
mirable to me than mast-hemmed 
Manhattan ? 

River and sunset and scallop-edged waves 
of flood-tide ? 

The sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the 
hay-boat in the twilight, and the 
belated lighter ? 

Flow on, river ! flow with the flood-tide, 

and ebb with the ebb-tide ! 
Frolic on, crested and scallop-edged waves ! 



WALT WHITMAN 



227 



Gorgeous clouds of the sunset ! drench 

with your splendor me, or the men 

and women generations after me ! 
Cross from shore to shore, countless crowds 

of passengers ! 
Stand up, tall masts of Mannahatta ! Stand 

up, beautiful hills of Brooklyn ! 
Throb, baffled and curious brain ! throw 

out questions and answers ! 
Suspend here and everywhere, eternal float 

of solution ! 
Gaze, loving and thirsting eyes, in the house 

or street or public assembly ! 
Sound out, voices of young men ! loudly 

and musically call me by my nigh- 

est name ! 
Live, old life ! play the part that looks 

back on the actor or actress ! 
Play the old role, the role that is great or 

small according as one makes it ! 
Consider, you who peruse me, whether I 

may not in unknown ways be look- 
ing upon you; 
Be firm, rail over the river, to support 

those who lean idly, yet haste with 

the hasting current; 
Fly on,, sea-birds ! fly sideways, or wheel 

in large circles high in the air; 
Receive the summer sky, you water, and 

faithfully hold it till all downcast 

eyes have time to take it from you ! 
Diverge, fine spokes of light, from the 

shape of my head, or any one's head, 

in the sunlit water ! 
Come on, ships from the lower bay ! pass 

up or down, white-sailed schooners, 

sloops, lighters ! 
Flaunt away, flags of all nations ! be duly 

lowered at sunset ! 
Burn high your fires, foundry chimneys ! 

cast black shadows at nightfall ! 

cast red and yellow light over the 

tops of the houses ! 
Appearances, now or henceforth, indicate 

what you are. 
You necessary film, continue to envelop 

the soul. 
About my body for me, and your body for 

you, be hung our divinest aromas. 
Thrive, cities — bring your freight, bring 

your shows, ample and sufficient 

rivers. 
Expand, being than which none else is per- 
haps more spiritual. 
Keep your places, objects than which none 

else is more lasting. 



OUT OF THE CRADLE END- 
LESSLY ROCKING 

Out of the cradle endlessly rocking, 

Out of the mocking-bird's throat, the mu- 
sical shuttle, 

Out of the Ninth-month midnight. 

Over the sterile sands and the fields beyond, 
where the child leaving his bed 
wandered alone, bareheaded, bare- 
foot, 

Down from the showered halo, 

Up from the mystic play of shadows twin- 
ing and twisting as if they were 
alive, 

Out from the patches of briers and black- 
berries. 

From the memories of the bird that chanted 
to me. 

From your memories, sad brother, from the 
fitful risings and fallings I heard. 

From under that yellow half-moon late- 
risen and swollen as if with tears, 

From those beginning notes of yearning 
and love there in the mist, 

From the thousand responses of my heart 
never to cease, 

From the myriad thence-aroused words, 

From the word stronger and more delicious 
than any. 

From such as now they start the scene re- 
visiting. 

As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead 
passing, 

Borne hither, ere all eludes me, hurriedly, 

A man, yet by these tears a little boy again, 

Throwing myself on the sand, confronting 
the waves, 

I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here 
and hereafter. 

Taking all hints to use them, but swiftly 
leaping beyond them, 

A reminiscence sing. 

Once Paumanok, 

When the lilac-scent was in the air and 

Fifth-month grass was growing, 
Up this seashore in some briers, 
Two feathered guests from Alabama, two 

together. 
And their nest, and four light-green eggs 

spotted with brown, 
And every day the he-bird to and fro near 

at hand, 
And every day the she-bird crouched on 

her nest, silent, with bright eyes, 



228 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



And every day I, a curious boy, never too 

close, never disturbing them, 
Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating. 

Shine ! shine ! shine ! 

Pour down your warmth, great sun I 

While we bask, we two together. 

Two together ! 

Winds blow south, or winds blow north, 
Day come white, or night come black. 
Home, or rivers and mountains from home. 
Singing all time, minding no time. 
While we two keep together. 

Till of a sudden. 

Maybe killed, unknown to her mate, 

One forenoon the she-bird crouched not on 

the nest. 
Nor returned that afternoon, nor the next, 
Nor ever appeared again. 

And thenceforward all summer in the sound 

of the sea. 
And at night under the full of the moon in 

calmer weather, 
Over the hoarse surging of the sea. 
Or flitting from brier to brier by day, 
I saw, I heard at intervals the remaining 

one, the he-bird. 
The solitary guest from Alabama. 

Blow ! blow ! blow ! 

Blow up sea-winds along Paumanok's shore ; 
I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to 
me. 

Yes, when the stars glistened. 
All night long on the prong of a moss-scal- 
loped stake, 
Down almost amid the slapping waves. 
Sat the lone singer wonderful causing tears. 

He called on his mate. 
He poured forth the meanings which I of 
all men know. 

Yes, my brother, I know, — 

The rest might not, but I have treasured 

every note. 
For more than once dimly down to the 

beach gliding, 
Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending 

myself with the shadows, 



Recalling now the obscure shapes, the 
echoes, the sounds and sights after 
their sorts, 

The white arms out in the breakers tire- 
lessly tossing, 

I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting 
my hair. 

Listened long and long. 

Listened to keep, to sing, now translating 

the notes. 
Following you, my brother. 

Soothe! soothe! soothe! 

Close on its wave soothes the wave behind, 

And again another behind embracing and 

lapping, every one close. 
But my love soothes not me, not me. 

Low hangs the moon, it rose late, 
It is lagging — 01 think it is heavy with love, 
with love. 

O madly the sea pushes upon the land, 
With love, with love. 

O night ! do I not see my love fluttering out 

among the breakers f 
What is that little black thing I see there in 

the white f 

Loud! loud! loud! 

Loud I call to you, my love I 

High and clear I shoot my voice over the 

waves. 
Surely you must know who is here, is here, 
You must know who I am, my love. 

Low-hanging moon ! 

What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow f 

O it is the shape, the shape of my mate ! 

O moon, do not keep her from me any longer. 

Land ! land ! land ! 

Whichever way I turn, 0, I think you could 
give me my mate back again if you 
only ivould. 

For I am almost sure I see her dimly which- 
ever way I look. 

rising stars ! 

Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will 
rise with some of you. 



WALT WHITMAN 



229 



throat ! O trembling throat ! 
Sound clearer through the atmosphere ! 
Pierce the woods, the earth, 
Somewhere listening to catch you must be the 
one I want. 

Shake out carols ! 

Solitary here, the night's carols ! 

Carols of lonesome love ! death's carols ! 

Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning 

moon ! 
under that moon where she droops almost 

down into the sea ! 
reckless despairing carols ! 

But soft ! sitik low ! 

Soft ! let me just murmur, 

A nd do you ivait a moment, you husky-noised 
sea. 

For somewhere I believe I heard my mate re- 
sponding to me. 

So faint, I must be still, be still to listen. 

But not altogether still, for then she might not 
come immediately to me. 

Hither, my love ! 

Here I am ! here ! 

With this just-sustained note I announce my- 
self to you, 

This gentle call is for you my love, for 
you. 

Do not be decoyed elsewhere : 

That is the whistle of the wind, it is not my 

voice. 
That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the 

spray, 
Those are the shadows of leaves. 

darkness ! in vain ! 

I am very sick and sorrowful. 

brown halo in the sky near the moon, droop- 
ing upon the sea ! 

O troubled reflection in the sea ! 

O throat ! throbbing heart ! 

And I singing uselessly, uselessly all the 
night. 

past ! happy life ! O songs of joy ! 
In the air, in the woods, over fields. 
Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved! 
But my mate no more, no more with me ! 
We two together no more. 



The aria sinking, 

All else continuing, the stars shining, 

The winds blowing, the notes of the bird 

continuous echoing, 
With angry moans the fierce old mother 

incessantly moaning, 
On the sands of Paumauok's shore gray 

and rustling, 
The yellow half-moon enlarged, sagging 

down, drooping, the face of the sea 

almost touching. 
The boy ecstatic, with his bare feet the 

waves, with his hair the atmosphere 

dallying, 
The love in the heart long pent, now loose, 

now at last tumultuously bursting. 
The aria's meaning, the ears, the soul, 

swiftly depositing, 
The strange tears down the cheeks coursing. 
The colloquy there, the trio, each uttering, 
The undertone, the savage old mother in- 
cessantly crying. 
To the boy's soul's questions sullenly timing, 

some drown'd secret hissing, 
To the outsetting bard. 

Demon or bird ! (said the boy's soul) 

Is it indeed toward your mate you sing ? 
or is it really to me ? 

For I, that was a child, my tongue's use 
sleeping, now I have heard you, 

Now in a moment I know what I am for, I 
awake, 

And already a thousand singers, a thousand 
songs, clearer, louder and more sor- 
rowful than yours, 

A thousand warbling echoes have started to 
life within me, never to die. 

O you singers solitary, singing by yourself, 

projecting me, 
O solitary me listening, never more shall I 

cease perpetuating you, 
Never more shall I escape, never more 

the reverberations. 
Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be 

absent from me. 
Never again leave me to be the peaceful 

child I was before what there in 

the night. 
By the sea under the yellow and sagging 

moon. 
The messenger there aroused, the fire, the 

sweet hell within. 
The unknown want, the destiny of me. 



230 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



O give me the clew ! (it lurks in the night 

here somewhere) 
O if I am to have so much, let me have 

more ! 

A word then, (for I will conquer it) 
The word final, superior to all, 
Subtle, sent up — what is it ? — I listen; 
Are you whispering it, and have been all 

the time, you sea-waves ? 
Is that it from your liquid rims and wet 

sands ? 

Whereto answering, the sea, 

Delaying not, hurrying not. 

Whispered me through the night, and very 
plainly before daybreak. 

Lisped to me the low and delicious word 
death. 

And again death, death, death, death. 

Hissing melodious, neither like the bird 
nor like my aroused child's heart. 

But edging near as privately for me, rus- 
tling at my feet, 

Creeping thence steadily up to my ears and 
laving me softly all over, 

Death, death, death, death, death. 

Which I do not forget, 

But fuse the song of my dusky demon and 

brother, 
That he sang to me in the moonlight on 

Paumanok's gray beach. 
With the thousand responsive songs at 

random. 
My own songs awaked from that hour. 
And with them the key, the word up from 

the waves, 
The word of the sweetest song and all 

songs, 
That strong and delicious word which, 

creeping to my feet, 
(Or like some old crone rocking the cradle, 

swathed in sweet garments, bending 

aside) 
The sea whispered me. 



TO* THE MAN-OF-WAR-BIRD 

Thou who hast slept all night upon the 

storm, 
Waking renewed on thy prodigious pinions, 
(Burst the wild storm ? above it thou as- 

cendedst. 



And rested on the sky, thy slave that 

cradled thee) 
Now a blue point, far, far in heaven floating. 
As to the light emerging here on deck I 

watch thee, 
(Myself a speck, a point on the world's 

floating vast.) 

Far, far at sea. 

After the night's fierce drifts have strewn 

the shore with wrecks. 
With re-appearing day as now so happy 

and serene. 
The rosy and elastic dawn, the flashing sun. 
The limpid spread of air cerulean, 
Thou also re-appearest. 

Thou born to match the gale, (thou art all 

wings) 
To cope with heaven and earth and sea and 

hurricane. 
Thou ship of air that never furl'st thy sails, 
Days, even weeks untired and onward, 

through spaces, realms gyrating, 
At dusk that look'st on Senegal, at morn 

America, 
That sport'st amid the lightning-flash and 

thunder-cloud, 
In them, in thy experiences, hadst thou my 

soul. 
What joys ! what joys were thine ! 



THE DALLIANCE OF THE 
EAGLES 

Skirting the river road (my forenoon 

walk, my rest). 
Skyward in air a sudden muffled sound, 

the dalliance of the eagles, 
The rushing amorous contact high in space 

together, 
The clinching interlocking claws, a living, 

fierce, gyrating wheel, 
Four beating wings, two beaks, a swirling 

mass tight grappling, 
In tumbling turning clustering loops, 

straight dovsmward falling. 
Till o'er the river poised, the twain yet one, 

a moment's lull, 
A motionless still balance in the air, then 

parting, talons loosing, 
Upward again on slow-firm pinions slanting, 

their separate diverse flight, 
She hers, he his, pursuing. 



WALT WHITMAN 



231 



CAVALRY CROSSING A FORD 

A LINE in long array where they wind be- 
twixt green islands, 

They take a serpentine course, their arms 
flash in the sun, — hark to the mu- 
sical clank. 

Behold the silvery river, in it the splashing 
horses loitering stop to drink, 

Behold the brown-faced men, each group, 
each person, a picture, the negligent 
rest on the saddles, 

Some emerge on the opposite bank, others 
are just entering the ford — while, 

Scarlet and blue and snowy white, 

The guidon flags flutter gayly in the wind. 



BIVOUAC ON A MOUNTAIN SIDE 

I SEE before me now a travelling army 

halting. 
Below a fertile valley spread, with barns 

and the orchards of summer. 
Behind, the terraced sides of a mountain, 

abrupt, in places rising high. 
Broken, with rocks, with clinging cedars, 

with tall shapes dingily seen. 
The numerous camp-fires scattered near 

and far, some away up on the moun- 
tain, 
The shadowy forms of men and horses, 

looming, large-sized, flickering. 
And over all the sky — the sky ! far, far 

out of reach, studded, breaking out, 

the eternal stars. 



A SIGHT IN CAMP IN THE DAY- 
BREAK GRAY AND DIM 

A SIGHT in camp in the daybreak gray and 
dim. 

As from my tent I emerge so early sleep- 
less, 

As slow I walk in the cool fresh air the 
path near by the hospital tent, 

Three forms I see on stretchers lying, 
brought out there untended lying, 

Over each the blanket spread, ample brown- 
ish woolen blanket, 

Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering 
all. 



Curious I halt and silent stand. 

Then with light fingers I from the face of 

the nearest, the first, just lift the 

blanket ; 
Who are you, elderly man so gaunt and 

grim, with well-grayed hair, and 

flesh all sunken about the eyes ? 
Who are you, my dear comrade ? 

Then to the second I stepped — and who 
are you, my child and darling ? 

Who are you, sweet boy with cheeks yet 
blooming ? 

Then to the third — a face nor child nor 
old, very calm, as of beautiful yel- 
low-white ivory; 

Young man, I think I know you — I think 
this face is the face of the Christ 
himself. 

Dead and divine and brother of all, and 
here again he lies. 



O CAPTAIN ! MY CAPTAIN ! 

O Captain ! my Captain ! our fearful trip 

is done. 
The ship has weathered every rack, the 

prize we sought is won. 
The port is near, the bells I hear, the 

people all exulting. 
While follow eyes the steady keel, the ves- 
sel grim and daring; 
But O heart ! heart ! heart ! 
O the bleeding drops of red, 

Where on the deck my Captain 
lies. 
Fallen cold and dead. 

O Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear 

the bells; 
Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for 

you the bugle trills. 
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths — 

for you the shores acrowding. 
For you they call, the swaying mass, their 
eager faces turning; 
Here Captain ! dear father ! 
This arm beneath your head ! 

It is some dream that on the deck 
You 've fallen cold and dead. 



232 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



My Captain does not answer, his lips are 

pale and still, 
My father does not feel my arm, he has 

no pulse nor will, 
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its 

voyage closed and done. 
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in 
with object won; 
Exult O shores, and ring O bells ! 
But I, with mournful tread, 

Walk the deck my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead. 



AFTER AN INTERVAL 

(NOVEMBER 22, 1875, MIDNIGHT — SAT- 
URN AND MARS IN CONJUNCTION) 

After an interval, reading, here in the 

midnight. 
With the great stars looking on — all the 

stars of Orion looking. 
And the silent Pleiades — and the duo 

looking of Saturn and ruddy Mars; 
Pondering, reading my own songs, after a 

long interval, (sorrow and death fa- 
miliar now) 
Ere closing the book, what pride ! what 

joy ! to find them 
Standing so well the test of death and 

night. 
And the duo of Saturn and Mars !- 



BAREST THOU NOW O SOUL 

Darest thou now, O soul, 

Walk out with me toward the unknown 

region. 
Where neither ground is for the feet nor 

any path to follow ? 

No map there, nor guide. 

Nor voice sounding, nor touch of human 

hand. 
Nor face with blooming flesh, nor lips, nor 

eyes, are in that land. 

I know it not, O soul ! 
Nor dost thou, all is a blank before us, — 
All waits undreamed of in that region, that 
inaccessible land. 

Till when the tie is loosened. 
All but the ties eternal. Time and Space, 
Nor darkness, gravitation, sense, nor any 
bounds bounding us. 

Then we burst forth, we float, 

In Time and Space, O soul ! prepared for 

them. 
Equal, equipped at last, (O joy ! O fruit of 

all !) them to fulfil, O soul ! 



CJomajef SDunn aBiijli^lft 



SONGS 



THE OLD MILL 



Here from the brow of the hill I look, 

Through a lattice of boughs and leaves. 
On the old gray mill with its gambrel 
roof. 

And the moss on its rotting eaves. 
I hear the clatter that jars its walls, 

And the rushing water's sound. 
And I see the black floats rise and fall 

As the wheel goes slowly round. 

I rode there often when I was young. 
With my grist on the horse before, 



And talked with Nelly, the miller's girl, 
As I waited my turn at the door; 

And while she tossed her ringlets brown, 
And flirted and chatted so free. 

The wheel might stop or the wheel might 

go. 
It was all the same to me. 

'T is twenty years since last I stood 

On the spot where I stand to-day, 
And Nelly is wed, and the miller is dead, 

And the mill and I are gray. 
But both, till we fall into ruin and wreck, 

To our fortune of toil are bound; 
And the man goes, and the stream flows. 

And the wheel moves slowly round. 



THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH — JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND 233 



BEN BOLT 

Don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben 
Bolt, — 
Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown, 
Who wept with delight when yoa gave her 
a smile. 
And trembled with fear at your frown ? 
In the old church-yard in the valley, Ben 
Bolt, 
In a corner obscure and alone. 
They have fitted a slab of the granite so 
gray. 
And Alice lies under the stone. 

Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt, 

Which stood at the foot of the hill. 
Together we've lain in the noonday shade. 

And listened to Appleton's mill. 
The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben 
Bolt, 

The rafters have tumbled in. 
And a quiet which crawls round the walls 
as you gaze 

Has followed the olden din. 

Do you mind of the cabin of logs, Ben 
Bolt, 
At the edge of the pathless wood. 
And the button-ball tree with its motley 
limbs. 
Which nigh by the doorstep stood ? 



The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt, 
The tree you would seek for in vain ; 

And where once the lords of the forest 
waved 
Are grass and the golden grain. 

And don't you remember the school, Ben 
Bolt, 
With the master so cruel and grim. 
And the shaded nook in the running 
brook 
Where the children went to swim ? 
Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben 
Bolt, 
The spring of the brook is dry, 
And of all the boys who were schoolmates 
then 
There are only you and I. 

There is change in the things I loved, Ben 
Bolt, 
They have changed from the old to the 
new; 
But I feel in the deeps of my spirit the 
truth, 
There never was change in you. 
Twelvemonths twenty have past, Ben Bolt, 
Since first we were friends — yet I 
hail 
Your presence a blessing, your friendship a 
truth, 
Ben Bolt of the salt-sea gale. 



g[o^ta|i mihttt f^manh' 



DANIEL GRAY 

If I shall eVer win the home in heaven 
For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and 

pray, 
In the great company of the forgiven 
I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 

I knew him well; in truth, few knew him 
better; 

For my young eyes oft read for him the 
Word, 

And saw how meekly from the crystal let- 
ter 

He drank the life of his beloved Lord. 



Old Daniel Gray was not a man who lifted 
On ready words his freight of gratitude, 

1 See, also, p. 588, 



Nor was he called as one among the gifted, 
In the prayer-meetings of his neighborhood. 

He had a few old-fashioned words and 

phrases, 
Linked in with sacred texts and Sunday 

rhymes ; 
And I suppose that in his prayers and 

graces 
I 've heard them all at least a thousand 

times. 

I see him now — his form, his face, his 

motions, 
His homespun habit, and his silver hair, — 
And hear the language of his trite devotions. 
Rising behind the straight-backed kitchen 

chair. 



234 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



I can remember how the sentence sounded — 
"Help us, O Lord, to pray and not to 

faint ! " r _ 

And how the " conquering and to conquer " 

rounded 
The loftier aspirations of the saint. 

He had some notions that did not improve 

him: 
He never kissed his children — so they say; 
And finest scenes and fairest flowers would 

move him 
Less than a horse-shoe picked up in the 

way. 

He had a hearty hatred of oppression, 
And righteous words for sin of every kind; 
Alas, that the transgressor and transgres- 
sion 
Were linked so closely in his honest mind ! 

He could see naught but vanity in beauty. 
And naught but weakness in a fond caress. 
And pitied men whose views of Christian 

duty 
Allowed indulgence in such foolishness. 

Yet there were love and tenderness within 

him; 
And I am told that when his Charley died, 
Nor nature's need nor gentle words could 

win him 
From his fond vigils at the sleeper's side. 

And when they came to bury little Charley 
They found fresh dew-drops sprinkled in 

his hair, 
And on his breast a rose-bud gathered 

early, 
And guessed, but did not know, who placed 

it there. 

Honest and faithful, constant in his calling. 
Strictly attendant on the means of grace. 
Instant in prayer, and fearful most of fall- 
ing, 
Old Daniel Gray was always in his place. 

A practical old man, and yet a dreamer, 

He thought that in some strange, unlooked- 
for way 

His mighty Friend in Heaven, the great 
Redeemer, 

Would honor him with wealth some golden 
day. 



This dream he carried in a hopeful spirit 
Until in death his patient eye grew dim. 
And his Redeemer called him to inherit 
The heaven of wealth long garnered up for 
him. 

So, if I ever win the home in heaven 

For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and 

pray, 
In the great company of the forgiven 
I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 



BABYHOOD 

What is the little one thinking about ? 
Very wonderful things, no doubt ! 

Unwritten history ! 

Unfathomed mystery ! 
Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and 

drinks. 
And chuckles and crows, and nods and 

winks. 
As if his head were as full of kinks 
And curious riddles as any sphinx ! 

Warped by colic, and wet by tears, 

Punctured by pins, and tortured by 
fears, 

Our little nephew will lose two years; 

And he '11 never know 

Where the summers go ; — 
He need not laugh, for he '11 find it so ! 

Who can tell what a baby thinks ? 
Who can follow the gossamer links 

By which the manikin feels his way 
Out from the shore of the great unknown, 
Blind, and wailing, and alone. 

Into the light of day ? — 
Out from the shore of the unknown sea, 
Tossing in pitiful agony, — 
Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls. 
Specked with the barks of little souls — 
Barks that were launched on the other side, 
And slipped from Heaven on an ebbing tide ! 

What does he think of his mother's 
eyes ? 
What does he think of his mother's hair ? 

What of the cradle-roof that flies 
Forward and backward through the air ? 

What does he think of his mother's 
breast — 
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, 
Seeking it ever with fresh delight — 

Cup of his life and couch of his rest ? 



JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND — HERMAN MELVILLE 235 



What does he think when her quick em- 
brace 
Presses his hand and buries his face 
Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell 
With a tenderness she can never tell, 

Though she murmur the words 

Of all the birds — 
Words she has learned to murmur well ? 

Now he thinks he '11 go to sleep ! 

I can see the shadow creep 

Over his eyes, in soft eclipse, 

Over his brow, and over his lips, 

Out to his little finger-tips ! 

Softly sinking, down he goes ! 

Down he goes ! Down he goes ! 

See ! He is hushed in sweet repose ! 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL 

There 's a song in the air ! 

There 's a star in the sky ! 

There 's a mother's deep prayer 

And a baby's low cry ! 
And the star rains its fire while the Beau- 
tiful sing, 
For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king. 



There 's a tumult of joy 
O'er the wonderful birth. 
For the virgin's sweet boy 
Is the Lord of the earth. 
Ay ! the star rains its fire and the Beauti- 
ful sing, 
For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a 
king. 

In the light of that star 
Lie the ages impearled; 
And that song from afar 
Has swept over the world. 
Every hearth is aflame, and the Beautiful 

sing 
In the homes of the nations that Jesus is 
King. 

We rejoice in the light, 
And we echo the song 
That comes down through the night 
From the heavenly throng. 
Ay ! we shout to the lovely evangel they 

bring, 
And we greet in his cradle our Saviour 
and King. 



German a^ribille 



THE COLLEGE COLONEL 1 

He rides at their head; 

A crutch by his saddle just slants in view, 
One slung arm is in splints you see. 

Yet he guides his strong steed — how 
coldly too. 

He brings his regiment home. 

Not as they filed two years before ; 
But a remnant half-tattered, and battered, 

and worn. 
Like castaway sailors, who, stunned 
By the surf's loud roar, 
Their mates dragged back and seen no 
more, — 
Again and again breast the surge, 
And at last crawl, spent, to shore. 

A still rigidity and pale. 

An Indian aloofness, lones his brow; 

» Copyright, 1866, by 



He has lived a thousand years 
Compressed in battle's pains and prayers, 
Marches and watches slow. 

There are welcoming shouts and flags; 

Old men off hat to the Boy, 
Wreaths from gay balconies fall at his 
feet. 

But to him — there comes alloy. 

It is not that a leg is lost. 

It is not that an arm is maimed, 

It is not that the fever has racked, — 
Self he has long disclaimed. 

But all through the Seven Days' Fight, 
And deep in the Wilderness grim, 

And in the field-hospital tent. 
And Petersburg crater, and dim 

Lean brooding in Libby, there came — 
Ah heaven ! — what truth to him ! 
Habfeb & Bbothebs. 



236 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



THE EAGLE OF THE BLUE^ 

Aloft he guards the starry folds 
Who is the brother of the star; 

The bird whose joy is in the wind 
Exulteth in the war. 

No painted plume — a sober hue, 

His beauty is his power; 
That eager calm of gaze intent 

Foresees the Sibyl's hour. 

Austere, he crowns the swaying perch, 

Flapped by the angry flag; 
The hurricane from the battery sings, 

But his claw has known the crag. 

Amid the scream of shells, his scream 

Runs shrilling; and the glare 
Of eyes that brave the blinding sun 

The volleyed flame can bear. 

The pride of quenchless strength is his — 
Strength which, though chained, avails; 

The very rebel looks and thrills — 
The anchored Emblem hails. 

Though scarred in many a furious fray, 

No deadly hurt he knew; 
Well may we think his years are charmed — 

The Eagle of the Blue. 



MEMORIALS 

ON THE SLAIN AT CHICKAMAUGA ^ 

Happy are they and charmed in life 

Who through long wars arrive un- 
scarred 
At peace. To such the wreath be given. 
If they unfalteringly have striven — 

In honor, as in limb, unmarred. 
Let cheerful praise be rife. 

And let them live their years at ease. 
Musing on brothers who victorious died — 

Loved mates whose memory shall ever 
please. 

And yet mischance is honorable too — 
Seeming defeat in conflict justified, 
Whose end to closing eyes is hid from 

view. 
The will, that never can relent — 

1 Copyright, 1866, by 



The aim, survivor of the bafflement. 
Make this memorial due. 



AN UNINSCRIBED MONUMENT ON ONE 
OF THE BATTLE-FIELDS OF THE WIL- 
DERNESS * 

Silence and Solitude may hint 

(Whose home is in yon piny wood) 
What I, though tableted, could never tell — 
The din which here befell, 

And striving of the multitude. 
The iron cones and spheres of death 

Set round me in their rust, — 
These, too, if just. 
Shall speak with more than animated 
breath. 

Thou who beholdest, if thy thought, 
Not narrowed down to personal cheer, 
Take in the import of the quiet here — 

The after-quiet — the calm full fraught; 
Thou too wilt silent stand, — 
Silent as I, and lonesome as the land. 



CROSSING THE TROPICS 

While now the Pole Star sinks from 
sight 
The Southern Cross it climbs the sky; 
But losing thee, my love, my light, 

bride but for one bridal night. 
The loss no rising joys supply. 

Love, love, the Trade Winds urge abaft, 
And thee, from thee, they steadfast waft. 

By day the blue and silver sea 

And chime of waters blandly fanned,— 
Nor these, nor Gama's stars to me 
May yield delight, since still for thee 

I long as Gama longed for land. 

1 yearn, I yearn, reverting turn. 
My heart it streams in wake astern. 

When, cut by slanting sleet, we swoop 

Where raves the world's inverted year, 
If roses all your porch shall loop, 
Not less your heart for me will droop. 
Doubling the world's last outpost drear 

O love, O love, these oceans vast: 
Love, love, it is as death were past ! 

Harpeb & Brothers. 



HERMAN MELVILLE — THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS 237 



THE ENVIABLE ISLES 


On uplands hazed, in wandering airs 




aswoon. 


Through storms you reach them and from 


Slow-swaying palms salute love's cypress 


storms are free. 


tree 


Afar descried, the foremost drear in 


Adown in vale where pebbly runlets croon 


hue, 


A song to lull all sorrow and all glee. 


But, nearer, green; and, on the marge, the 




sea 


Sweet-fern and moss in many a glade are 


Makes thunder low and mist of rain- 


here, 


bowed dew. 


Where, strown in flocks, what cheek- 




flushed myriads lie 


But, inland, — where the sleep that folds 


Dimpling in dream, unconscious sliimberers 


the hills 


mere, 


A dreamier sleep, the trance of God, in- 


While billows endless round the beaches 


stils, — 


die. 



€fjoma^ H^iUiam ^ar^on^ 



ON A BUST OF DANTE 

See, from this counterfeit of him 
Whom Arno shall remember long. 

How stern of lineament, how grim, 
The father was of Tuscan song: 
There but the burning sense of wrong. 

Perpetual care and scorn, abide; 
Small friendship for the lordly throng; 

Distrust of all the world beside. 

Faithful if this wan image be. 
No dream his life was, — but a fight ! 

Could any Beatrice see 
A lover in that anchorite ? 
To that cold Ghibelline's gloomy sight 

Who could have guessed the visions came 
Of Beauty, veiled with heavenly light. 

In circles of eternal flame ? 

The lips as Cumse's cavern close, 
Tlie cheeks with fast and sorrow thin. 

The rigid front, almost morose. 
But for the patient hope within. 
Declare a life whose course hath been 

Unsullied still, though still severe. 
Which, through the wavering days of sin. 

Kept itself icy-chaste and clear. 

Not wholly such his haggard look 
When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed. 

With no companion save his book. 
To Corvo's hushed monastic shade; 



Where, as the Benedictine laid 

His palm upon the convent's guest, 

The single boon for which he prayed 
Was peace, that pilgrim's one request. 

Peace dwells not here, — this rugged 
face 
Betrays no spirit of repose; 

The sullen warrior sole we trace, 
The marble man of many woes. 
Such was his mien when first arose 

The thought of that strange tale divine, 
When hell he peopled with his foes, 

Dread scourge of many a guilty line. 

War to the last he waged with all 
The tyrant canker-worms of earth; 

Baron and duke, in hold and hall. 
Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth; 
He used Rome's harlot for his mirth ; 

Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime; 
But valiant souls of knightly worth 

Transmitted to the rolls of Time. 

O Time ! whose verdicts mock our 
own. 
The only righteous judge art thou; 

That poor old exile, sad and lone. 
Is Latium's other Virgil now: 
Before bis name the nations bow; 

His words are parcel of mankind. 
Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow. 

The marks have sunk of Dante's mind. 



238 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



DIRGE 

FOR ONE WHO FELL IN BATTLE 

Room for a soldier ! lay liim in the clover; 
He loved the fields, and they shall be his 

cover ; 
Make his mound with hers who called him 
once her lover: 
Where the rain may rain upon it, 
Where the sun may shine upon it, 
Where the lamb hath lain upon it, 
And the bee will dine upon it. 

Bear him to no dismal tomb under city 

churches ; 
Take him to the fragrant fields, by the sil- 
ver birches, 
Where the whip-poor-will shall mourn, 
where the oriole perches: 
Make his mound with sunshine on it. 
Where the bee will dine upon it, 
Where the lamb hath lain upon it, 
And tbe rain will rain upon it. 

Busy as the bee was be, and his rest should 

be the clover; 
Gentle as the lamb was he, and the fern 

should be his cover; 
Fern and rosemary shall grow my soldier's 
pillow over: 
Where the rain may rain upon it, 
Where the sun may shine upon it, 
Where the lamb hath lain upon it. 
And the bee will dine upon it. 

Sunshine in his heart, the rain would come 

full often 
Out of those tender eyes which evermore 

did soften: 
He never could look cold tiU we saw him 
in his coffin. 
Make his mound with sunshine on it. 
Plant the lordly pine upon it. 
Where the moon may stream upon it. 
And memory shall dream upon it. 

« Captain or Colonel," — whatever invoca- 
tion 
Suit our hymn the best, no matter for thy 

station, — 
On thy grave the rain shall fall from the 
eyes of a mighty nation ! 
Long as the sun doth shine upon it 
Shall glow the goodly pine upon it, 



Long as the stars do gleam upon it ^ 
Shall memory come to dream upon it. 



MARY BOOTH 

What shall we do now, Mary being dead. 
Or say or write that shall express the 
half? 
What can we do but pillow that fair head, 
And let the Spring-time write her epi- 
taph ! — 

As it will soon, in snowdrop, violet. 

Wind-flower and columbine and maiden's 
tear; 
Each letter of that pretty alphabet. 

That spells in flowers the pageant of the 
year. 

She was a maiden for a man to love; 

She was a woman for a husband's life; 
One that has learned to value, far above 

The name of love, the sacred name of 
wife. 

Her little life-dream, rounded so with sleep, 

Had all there is of life, except gray 

hairs, — 

Hope, love, trust, passion, and devotion 

deep; 

And that mysterious tie a mother bears. 

She hath fulfilled her promise and hath 
passed; 
Set her down gently at the iron door ! 
Eyes look on that loved image for the last: 
Now cover it in earth, — her earth no 
more. 

HER EPITAPH 

The handful here, that once was Mary's 
earth, 
Held, while it breathed, so beautiful a 
soul, . 

That, when she died, all recognized her 
birth, 
And had their sorrow in serene control. 

" Not here ! not here ! " to every mourner's 
heart 
The wintry wind seemed whispering 
I round her bier; 



THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS 



239 



And when the tomb-door opened, with a 
start 
We heard it echoed from within, — 
« Not here ! " 

Shouldst thou, sad pilgrim, who mayst 

hither pass, 

Note in these flowers a delieater hue. 

Should spring come earlier to this hallowed 

grass, ' 

Or the bee later linger on the dew, — 

Know that her spirit to her body lent 
Such sweetness, grace, as only goodness 
can; 
That even her dust, and this her monument. 
Have yet a spell to stay one lonely 
man, — 

Lonely through life, but looking for the 
day 
When what is mortal of himself shall 
sleep, 
When human passion shall have passed 
away. 
And Love no longer be a thing to weep. 



TO A YOUNG GIRL DYING 

WITH A GIFT OF FRESH PALM-LEAVES 

This is Palm Sunday: mindful of the day, 

I bring palm branches, found upon my 
way: 

But these will wither; thine shall never 
die, — 

The sacred palms thou bearest to the 
sky! 

Dear little saint, though but a child in 
years. 

Older in wisdom than my gray compeers ! 

We doubt and tremble, — we, with bated 
breath. 

Talk of this mystery of life and death : 

Thou, strong in faith, art gifted to con- 
ceive 

Beyond thy years, and teach us to believe ! 

Then take my palms, triumphal, to thy 

home. 
Gentle white palmer, never more to roam ! 
Only, sweet sister, give me, ere thou go'st. 
Thy benediction, — for my love thou 

know'st ! 



We, too, are pilgrims, travelling towards 

the shrine: 
Pray that our pilgrimage may end like 

thine ! 



INTO THE NOISELESS COUNTRY 

Into the noiseless country Annie went. 
Among the silent people where no sound 

Of wheel or voice or implement — no roar 
Of wind or billow moves the tranquil 
air: 

And oft at midnight when my strength is 
spent 
And day's delirium in the lull is drowned 
Of deepening darkness, as 1 kneel before 
Her palm and cross, comes to my soul this 
prayer, _ 
That partly brings me back to my content, 
" Oh, that hushed forest ! — soon may I 
be there ! " 



ANDREW 

Ermine or blazonry, he knew them not, 
Nor cloth of gold, for Duty was his 
Queen ; 
But this he knew, — a soul without a spot, 
Judgment untarnished, and a conscience 
clean. 

In peace, in war, a worker day and night. 

Laborious chieftain ! toiling at his lamp; 
The children had the splendor of the 
fight, -_ 
Home was his battle-field, his room the 
camp. 

Without a wound, without a stain he fell, 
But with life rounded, all his acts com- 
plete; 
And seldom History will have to tell 
Of one whom Cato could more gladly 
greet. 

Among the just his welcome should be 
warm. 
Nor will New England let his memory 
cease; 
He was our peacemaker, who mid the storm 
Of the great conflict, served the Prince 
of Peace. 



240 



FIRST ^.YRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



OBITUARY 

Finding Francesca full of tears, I said, 
" Tell me thy trouble." " Oh, my dog is 

dead ! 
Murdered by poison ! — no one knows for 

what — 
Was ever dog born capable of that ? " 
" Child," — I began to say, but checked 

my thought, — 
" A better dog can easily be bought." 
For no — what animal could him replace ? 
Those loving eyes ! That fond, confiding 

face ! 
Those dear, dumb touches ! Therefore I 

was dumb. 
From word of mine could any comfort 

come ? 
A bitter sorrow 't is to lose a brute 
Friend, dog or horse, for grief must then 

be mute, — 
So many smile to see the rivers shed 
Of tears for one poor, speechless creature 

dead. 
When parents die there 's many a word to 

say, — 
Kind words, consoling — one can always 

pray; 
When children die 't is natural to tell 
Their mother, " Certainly, with them 't is 

weU ! " 
But for a dog, 't was all the life he had, 
Since death is end of dogs, or good or bad. 
This was his world; he was contented here; 
Imagined nothing better, naught more 

dear. 
Than his young mistress ; sought no brighter 

sphere ; 
Having no sin, asked not to be forgiven; 
Ne'er guessed at God nor ever dreamed of 

heaven. 
Now he has passed away, so much of love 
Goes from our life, without one hope above ! 
When a dog dies there 's nothing to be said 
But — kiss me, darling ! — dear old Smil- 

er 's dead. 

TO A LADY 

WITH A HEAD OF DIANA 

My Christmas gifts were few: to one 
A fan, to keep love's flame alive, 

Sinee even to the constant sun 
Twilight and setting must arrive; 



And to another — she who sent 

That splendid toy, an empty purse — 

I gave, though not for satire meant. 
An emptier thing — a scrap of verse ; 

For thee I chose Diana's head. 

Graved by a cunning hand in Rome, 

To whose dim shop my feet were led 
By sweet remembrances of home. 

'T was with a kind of pagan feeling 
That I my little treasure bought, — 

My mood I care not for concealing, — 
" Great is Diana ! " was my thought. 

Methought, howe'er we change our creeds, 
Whether to Jove or God we bend, 

By various paths religion leads 
All spirits to a single end. 

The goddess of the woods and fields, 
The healthful huntress, undefiled, 

Now with her fabled brother yields 
To sinless Mary and her Child. 

But chastity and truth remain 
Still the same virtues as of yore, 

Whether we kneel in Christian fane 
Or old mythologies adore. 

What though the symbol were a lie, — 
Since the ripe world hath wiser grown, — 

If any goodness grew thereby, 
I will not scorn it for mine own. 

So I selected Dian's head 

From out the artist's glittering show; 
And this shall be my gift, I said, 

To one that bears the silver bow; 

To her whose quiet life has been 
The mirror of as calm a heart. 

Above temptation from the din 
Of cities, and the pomp of art; 

Who still hath spent her active days 
Cloistered amid her happy hills. 

Not ignorant of worldly ways. 

But loving more the woods and rills. 

And thou art she to whom I give 
This image of the virgin queen. 

Praying that thou, like her, mayst live 
Thrice blest ! in being seldom seen. 



THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS 



241 



"LIKE AS THE LARK" 

Quale allodetta che in aere si spazia 
Prima cantando, e poi tace, contenta, 
Dell' ultima dolcezza che la sazia. 

Dante : Paradiso, XX. 

Like as the lark that, soaring higher and 
higher, 

Singeth awhile, then stops as 't were con- 
tent 
With his last sweetness, having filled de- 
sire, 

So paused our bard; not for his force was 
spent, 
Nor that a string was loosened in his 
lyre, 

But, having said his best and done his best, 
He could not better what was given be- 
fore, 

And threescore years and ten, demanding 
rest, 
Whispered, They want thee on the other 
shore ! 

And now he walks amid the learned throng. 
Haply with him who was the sixth of 
those 

Who towered above the multitude in song. 
Or by the side of Geoffrey Chaucer goes, 

Who shall remember with his wonted 
smile 

How James found music in his antique 
style. 

But we '11 not mingle fancies with our sor- 
row 

Nor from his own imagination borrow; 

Holmes, who is left us, best could speak 
his praise 

Who knew his heart so well and loved his 
lays. 

And whom Heaven crowns with greater 
length of days. 

O YE SWEET HEAVENS ! 

YE sweet heavens ! your silence is to me 
More than all music. With what full de- 
light 



I come down to my dwelling by the sea 
And look from out the lattice on the night ! 
There the same glories burn serene and 

bright 
As in my boyhood ; and if I am old 
Are they not also ? Thus my spirit is 

bold 
To think perhaps we are coeval. Who 
Can tell when first my faculty began 
Of thought ? Who knows but I was 

there with you 
When first your Maker's mind, celestial 

spheres, 
Contrived your motion ere I was a man ? 
Else, wherefore do mine eyes thus fill with 

tears 
As I, O Pleiades ! your beauty scan ? 



PARADISI GLORIA 

" O frate mio! ciascuna e cittadina 
D' una vera citta "... 

There is a city, builded by no hand, 
And unapproachable by sea or shore, 

And unassailable by any band 

Of storming soldiery for evermore. 

There we no longer shall divide our time 
By acts or pleasures, — doing petty 
things 

Of work or warfare, merchandise or rhyme ; 
But we shall sit beside the silver springs 

That flow from God's own footstool, and 
behold 
Sages and martyrs, and those blessed 
few 
Who loved us once and were beloved of old, 
To dwell with them and walk with them 
anew, 

In alternations of sublime repose. 
Musical motion, the perpetual play 

Of every faculty that Heaven bestows 
Through the bright, busy, and eternal 
day. 



242 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



H^iliiam JBilticrforce Eorti 



FROM "WORSHIP" 

For them, O God, who only worship Thee 
In fanes whose fretted roofs shut out the 

heavens, 
Let organs breathe, and chorded psalteries 

sound : 
But let my voice rise with the mingled 

noise 
Of winds and waters ; — winds that in the 

sedge. 
And grass, and ripening grain, while na- 
ture sleeps. 
Practise, in whispered music, soft and low. 
Their sweet inventions, and then sing them 

loud 
In caves, and on the hills, aud in the woods, 
— A moving anthem, that along the air 
Dying, then swelling forth in fitful gusts, 
Like a full choir of bodiless voices, 

sweeps, — 
Yea, of the great earth that make an in- 
strument. 
Awakening vdth their touch, itself not mute. 
Each different thing to difference of tone. 
Long, harp-like shrillings, or soft gush of 

sounds; — 
Waters, — to earth, as to the air the winds, 
Motion and utterance, and that begin 
Even at their source the gently murmured 

hymn. 
Rise with the river, with the torrent swell. 
And at the cataract's dizzy, headlong leap, 
Break forth in solemn and deep bursts of 

song. 
Yet what is all this deep, perpetual sound, — 
These voices of the earth, and sea, and 

air. 
That make it seem to us, as if our Earth, 
Into the silent and unruffled deep 
Led forth, with thunder-step, the choir of 

worlds ? 
All these, — what are they ? — in the 

boundless void. 
An insect's whisper in the ear of night, 
A voice in that of death, — in thine, O God, 
A faint symphony to Heaven ascending 
Amid ten thousand, thousand songs of 

praise. 

Break forth, ye Winds ! 



That in the impalpable deep caves of 

air. 
Moving your silent plumes, in dreame of 

flight, 
Tumultuous lie, and from your half- 
stretched wings 
Beat the faint zephyrs that disturb the 

air; — 
Break forth, ye fiercer harmonies, ye 

Storms 
That in the cavernous and unquiet sea 
Lie pent, and like imprisoned thunders 

beat 
Your azure confines, making endless 

moan; — 
All sounds, all harmonies, break forth ! and 

be 
To these my thoughts and aspirations, 

voice ; — 
Rise, rise, not bearing, but upborne by 

them, — 
Rise through the golden gates uplift and 

wide ! 
In, through the everlasting doors ! and join 
The multitude of multitudes whose praise 
With mighty burst of full accordant sound 
Moves Heaven's whole fabric vast, as 

move the clouds 
That from their swinging censers upward 

pour. 
By wings of hovering seraphim disturbed, — 
A sound so deep and loud, that at its 

might 
The pillared heavens would fail, and all 

their frame 
Of ancient strength and grandeur sink at 

once. 
But for its soul of sweetness that sup- 
ports. 
And mightier harmony that builds them 

still: — 
Ye Winds ! ye Storms ! all sounds and 

harmonies, 
O thither rise ! be heard amidst the throng ; 
Let them that dwell within the gates of 

light. 
And them that sit on thrones — let seraphs 

hear, — 
Let laurelled saints, and let all angels 

hear, — 
A human soul knows and adores its God ! 



WILLIAM WILBERFORCE LORD 



243 



FROM AN " ODE TO ENGLAND " 

KEATS 

GOLD Hyperion, love-loru Porphyro, 
Ill-fated ! from thine orbed fire struck 

back 
Just as the parting clouds began to glow, 
And stars, like sparks, to bicker iu thy 
track ! 
Alas ! throw down, throw down, ye 
mighty dead, 
The leaves of oak and asphodel 
That ye were weaving for that honored 
head, — 
In vain, iu vain, your lips would seek a 
spell 
In the few charmed words the poet sung, 
To lure him upward in your seats to 
dwell, — 
As vain your grief ! Oh ! why should one 
so young 
Sit crowned midst hoary heads with 
wreaths divine ? 
Though to his lips Hymettus' bees had 
clung, 
His lips shall never taste the immortal 
wine. 
Who sought to drain the glowing cup too 

soon. 
For he hath perished, and the moon 
Hath lost Endymion — but too well 

The shaft that pierced him in her arms 

was sped: 
Into that gulf of dark and nameless 

dread, 
Star-like he fell, but a wide splendor 
shed 
Through its deep night, that kindled as he 
fell. 

WORDSWORTH 

And Thou ! whom earth still holds, and 

will not yield 
To join the mighty brotherhood of 

ghosts, — 
Who, when their lips upon the earth are 

sealed, 
Sing in the presence of the Lord of 

Hosts: — 
Thou that, when first my quickened ear 
Thy deeper harmonies might hear, 

1 imaged to myself as old and blind, 
For so were Milton and Mseonides ! 



And worthy art thou — whether like the 
wind 
Rousing its might among the forest 
trees, 
Thou sing of mountain and of flood. 
The voiceful thunder of the seas. 
With all their inland symphonies, 
Their thousand brooks and rills; 
The vale's deep voice, the roaring wood, 
The ancient silence of the hills, 
Sublimer still than these; 
Or in devotion's loftier mood. 
Like a solemn organ tone 
In some vast minster heard alone, 
Feelings thatare thoughts inspire; 
Or, with thy hand upon the lyre 
High victories to celebrate, 

Summon from its strings the throng 
Of stately numbers intricate 

That swell the impetuous tide of song. 
O Bard, of soul assured and high. 

And god-like calm ! we look on thee 
With like serene and awful eye. 

As when, — of such divinity 
Still credulous, — the multitude 

One in the concourse might behold, 
Whose statue in his life-time stood 
Among the gods. O Poet, old 
In all the years of future time ! 
But young in the perpetual youth 
And bloom of love, and might of truth, — 
To these thy least ambitious rhyme 

Is faithful, and partakes their worth; 
Yea, true as is the starry chime 

To the great strains the sun gives 
forth. 
Bard of our Time ! thy name we see, 
By golden-haired Mnemosyne, 

First graved upon its full-writ page, — 
Thee — last relinquished, whom the 
Age 
Doth yield to Immortality. 



THE BROOK 

A LITTLE blind girl wandering. 

While daylight pales beneath the moon, 
And with a brook meandering, 

To hear its gentle tune. 

The little blind girl by the brook, 

It told her something — you might guess, 

To see her smile, to see her look 
Of listening eagerness. 



244 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Though blind, a never silent guide 
Flowed with her timid feet along; 

And down she wandered by its side 
To hear the running song. 

And sometimes it was soft and low, 
A creeping music in the ground ; 

And then, if something checked its flow, 
A gurgling swell of sound. 

And now, upon the other side. 

She seeks her mother's cot; 
And still the noise shall be her guide, 

And lead her to the spot. 

For to the blind, so little free 
To move about beneath the sun. 

Small things like this seem liberty, — 
Something from darkness won. 

But soon she heard a meeting streana, 
And on the bank she followed still, 

It miurmured on, nor could she tell 
It was another rill. 

•* Ah ! whither, whither, my little maid ? 

And wherefore dost thou wander here ? " 
" I seek my mother's cot," she said, 

" And surely it is near." 

" There is no cot upon this brook. 
In yonder mountains dark and drear. 

Where sinks the sun, its source it took, 
Ah, wherefore art thou here ? " 

" O sir, thou art not true nor kind ! 

It is the brook, I know its sound. 
Ah ! why would you deceive the blind ? 

I hear it in the ground." 

And on she stepped, but grew more sad. 
And weary were her tender feet. 

The brook's small voice seemed not so 
glad. 
Its song was not so sweet. 

" Ah ! whither, whither, my little maid ? 

And wherefore dost thou wander here ? " 
" I seek my mother's cot," she said, 

" And surely it is near." ' 

" There is no cot upon this brook. " 
" I hear its sound," the maid replied, 

With dreamlike and bewildered look, 
" I have not left its side." 



" O go with me, the darkness nears. 
The first pale stars begin to gleam." 

The maid replied with bursting tears, 
" It is the stream ! it is the stream ! " 



ON THE DEFEAT OF A GREAT 

MAN 

Fallen ? How fallen ? States and em= 
pires fall; 
O'er towers and rock-built walls. 
And perished nations, floods to tempests 

call 
With hollow sound along the sea of time : 

The great man never falls. 
He lives, he towers aloft, he stands sub- 
lime: 
They fall who give him not 
The honor here that suits his future name, - — 
They die and are forgot. 

O Giant loud and blind ! the great man's 
fame 
Is his own shadow, and not cast by thee, — 
A shadow that shall grow 
As down the heaven of time the sun de- 
scends, 
And on the world shall throw 
His god-like image, till it sinks where 
blends 
Time's dim horizon with Eternity. 



TO ROSINA PICO 

Regent of song ! who bringest to our shore 
Strains from the passionate land, where 
shapes of art 

Make music of the wind that passes o'er. 
Thou even here hast found the human 
heart ; 

And in a thousand hearts thy songs re- 
peat 

Their echoes, like remembered poesy sweet, 

Witching the soul to warble evermore. 

First seen, it seemed as if thy sweetest 
strain 
Had taken shape, and stood before our 
sight; 
Thy aspect filled the silence with sweet 
pain 
That made it long for death. O creature 
bright ! 



WILLIAM W. LORD— HENRY H. BROWNELL 



245 



Or ere the trembling silence had ta'en flight 
We listened to thy looks, in hushed delight, 
And from thy motions sought a sound to 
gain. 

Then on all hearts at once did pour a flood 
Of golden sound, in many an eddying 
tone. 

As pours the wind into a breathless wood, 
Awakening in it music not its own; 

Thy voice controlled all spirits to one mood, 

Before all eyes one breathing image stood 
Beheld, as if to thee all eyes had grown. 



Yet did I seem to be with thee alone. 
With thee to stand upon enchanted 

ground, 
And gazed on thee, as if the sculptured 

stone 
Should live before me, (so thy magic 

bound 
My soul, bewildered) while a cloud of 

sound, 
Rising in wreaths, upon the air around 
Lingered like incense from a censer 

thrown. 



l^cntp i^otDarU 25rotondl 



FROM "THE RIVER-FIGHT" 

Would you hear of the River-Fight ? 
It was two of a soft spring night ; — 

God's stars looked down on all, 
And all was clear and bright 
But the low fog's chilling breath — 
Up the River of Death 

Sailed the Great Admiral. 

On our high poop-deck he stood, 

And round him ranged the men 
Who have made their birthright good 

Of manhood, once and again, — 
Lords of helm and of sail, 
Tried in tempest and gale, 

Bronzed in battle and wreck: 
Bell and Bailey grandly led 
Each his Line of the Blue and Red, 
Wainwright stood by our starboard rail, 

Thornton fought the deck„ 

And I mind me of more than they. 
Of the youthful, steadfast ones. 
That have shown them worthy sons 
Of the Seamen passed away — 
Tyson conned our helm that day, 
Watson stood by his guns. 

What thought our Admiral then. 
Looking down on his men ? 

Since the terrible day, 

(Day of renown and tears !) 

When at anchor the Essex lay, 

Holding her foes at bay, 



When, a boy, by Porter's side he stood 
Till deck and plank-sheer were dyed with 
blood, 
'T is half a hundred years — 
Half a hundred years to-day ! 

Who could fail with him ? 
Who reckon of life or limb ? 

Not a pulse but beat the higher ! 
There had you seen, by the starlight 

dim. 
Five hundred faces strong and grim — 

The Flag is going under fire ! 
Right up by the fort, with her helm hard- 
a-port. 

The Hartford is going under fire ! 

The way to our work was plain, 
Caldwell had broken the chain 
(Two hulks swung down amain, 

Soon as 'twas sundered). 
Under the night's dark blue, 
Steering steady and true. 
Ship after ship went through. 
Till, as we hove in view, 

Jackson out-thundered. 

Back echoed Philip ! ah, then 
Could you have seen our men. 

How they sprung, in the dim night haze, 
To their work of toil and of clamor ! 
How the loaders, with sponge and ram- 
mer. 
And their captains, with cord and hammer, 

Kept every muscle ablaze ! 



246 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



How the guns, as with cheer and shout 
Our tackle-men hurled them out, 
Brought up on the water-ways ! 

First, as we fired at their flash, 

'T was lightning and black eclipse, 
With a bellowing roll and crash; 
But soon, upon either bow, 

What with forts, and fire-rafts, and 
ships, 
(The whole fleet was hard at it now, 
AH pounding away !) and Porter 
Still thundering with shell and mortar, 

'T was the mighty sound and form 

Of an equatorial storm ! 

(Such you see in the Far South, 
After long heat and drouth, 

As day draws nigh to even: 
Arching from North to South, 
Blinding the tropic sun, 
The great black bow comes on, 
Till the thunder-veil is riven. 
When all is crash and levin. 
And the cannonade of heaven 
EoUs down the Amazon !) 

But, as we worked along higher, 
Just where the river enlarges, 

Down came a pyramid of fire — 
It was one of your long coal barges 
(We had often had the like before). 

'T was coming down on us to larboard. 
Well in with the eastern shore. 
And our pilot, to let it pass round, 
(You may guess we never stopped to 
sound) 

Giving us a rank sheer to starboard. 
Ran the Flag hard and fast aground ! 

'T was nigh abreast of the Upper Fort, 
And straightway a rascal Ram 
(She was shaped like the devil's dam) 

PuflEed away for us with a snort. 

And shoved it with spiteful strength 

Right alongside of us, to port. 
(It was all of our ship's length, 

A huge crackling Cradle of the Pit, 
Pitch-pine knots to the brim, 
Belching flame red and grim) 

What a roar came up from it ! 

Well, for a little it looked bad; 

But these things are, somehow, shorter 



In the acting than the telling. 
There was no singing-out nor yelling. 
Nor any fussing and fretting. 

No stampede, in short; 
But there we were, my lad, 

All afire on our port quarter. 
Hammocks ablaze in the netting, 

Flames spouting in at every port. 
Our Fourth Cutter burning at the davit. 
No chance to lower away and save it- 

In a twinkling the flames had risen 
Halfway to maintop and mizzen. 
Darting up the shrouds like snakes. 
Ah, how we clanked at the brakes ! 
And the deep steam-pumps throbbed 

under. 
Sending a ceaseless flow. 
Our topmen, a dauntless crowd. 
Swarmed in rigging and shroud — 

There, ('t was a wonder !) 
The burning ratlines and strands 
They quenched with their bare hard hands; 
But the great guns below 
Never silenced their thunder ! 

At last, by backing and sounding, 

When we were clear of grounding. 
And under headway once more. 

The whole rebel fleet came rounding 
The point. If we had it hot before, 
'T was now, from shore to shore. 
One long, loud thundering roar — 

Such crashing, splintering, and pounding. 
And smashing as you never heard be- 
fore ! 

But that we fought foul wrong to wreck. 
And to save the Land we loved so 
well. 
You might have deemed our long gun 
deck 
Two hundred feet of hell ! 

For all above was battle. 
Broadside, and blaze, and rattle, 

Smoke and thunder alone; 
But, down in the sick-bay, 
Where our wounded and dying lay, 

There was scarce a sob or a moan. 

And at last, when the dim day broke, 
And the sullen sun awoke. 
Drearily blinking 



HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL 



247 



O'er the haze and the canuon-smoke, 


Launched from the weather railing, 


That ever such mornuig dulls, 


Swift as the eye can mark. 


There were thirteen traitor hulls 


The ghastly, shotted hammock 


On fire and sinking ! 


Plunges, away from the shark, 




Down, a thousand fathoms, 




Down into the dark ! 


THE BURIAL OF THE DANE 


A thousand summers and winters 




The stormy Gulf shall roll 


Blue gulf all around us, 


High o'er his canvas coffin; 


Blue sky overhead — 


But, silence to doubt and dole: — 


Muster all on the quarter. 


There 's a quiet harbor somewhere 


We must bury the dead ! 


For the poor aweary soul. 


It is but a Danish sailor. 


Free the fettered engine. 


Bugged of front and form; 


Speed the tireless shaft. 


A common son of the forecastle, 


Loose to'gallant and topsail. 


Grizzled with sun and storm. 


The breeze is fair abaft ! 


His name, and the strand he hailed from 


Blue sea all around us, 


We know, and there 's nothing more ! 


Blue sky bright o'erhead — 


But perhaps his mother is waiting 


Every man to his duty. 


In the lonely Island of Fohr. 


We have buried our dead ! 


Still, as he lay there dying, 




Reason drifting awreck. 




" 'Tis my watch," he would mutter. 


THE SPHINX 


" I must go upon deck ! " 






They glare — those stony eyes ! 


Aye, on deck, by the foremast ! 


That in the fierce sun-rays 


But watch and lookout are done; 


Showered from these burning skies. 


The Union Jack laid o'er him. 


Through untold centuries 


How quiet he lies in the sun ! 


Have kept their sleepless and unwinking 


Slow the ponderous engine. 


gaze. 


Stay the hurrying shaft; 


Since what unnumbered year 


Let the roll of the ocean 


Hast thou kept watch and ward, 


Cradle our giant craft; 


And o'er the buried Land of Fear 


Gather around the grating, 


So grimly held thy guard ? 


Carry your messmate aft ! 


No faithless slumber snatching. 




Still couched in silence brave. 


Stand in order, and listen 


Like some fierce hound long watching 


To the holiest page of prayer ! 


Above her master's grave. 


Let every foot be quiet. 




Every head be bare — 


No fabled Shape art thou ! 


The soft trade-wind is lifting 


On that thought-freighted brow 


A hundred locks of hair. 


And in those smooth weird lineaments we 
find. 
Though traced all darkly, even now. 


Our captain reads the service. 


(A little spray on his cheeks) 


The relics of a Mind : 


The grand old words of burial. 


And gather dimly thence 


And the trust a true heart seeks : — 


A vague, half-human sense — 


•' We therefore commit his body 


The strange and sad Intelligence 


To the deep " — and, as he speaks, 


That sorrow leaves behind. 



248 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Dost thou in anguish thus 

Still brood o'er (Edipus ? 
And weave enigmas to mislead anew, 

And stultify the blind 

Dull heads of human kind, 
And inly make thy moan 
That mid the hated crew, 

Whom thou so long couldst vex, 

Bewilder, and perplex. 
Thou yet couldst find a subtler than thine 
own ? 

Even now, methinks that those 

Dark, heavy lips, which close 

In such a stern repose. 
Seem burdened with some Thought unsaid, 
And hoard within their portals dread 

Some fearful Secret there, — 
Which to the listening earth 
She may not whisper forth, 

Not even to the air, — 

Of awful wonders hid 
In yon dread pyramid. 

The home of magic Fears, 
, Of chambers vast and lonely, 
Watched by the Genii only. 
Who tend their Masters' long-forgotten 
biers; 
And treasures that have shone 
On cavern walls alone 

Four thousand, thousand years. 



Those sullen orbs wouldst thou eclipse, 
And ope those massy, tomb-like lips, 
Many a riddle thou couldst solve 
Which all blindly men revolve. 

Would She but tell ! She knows 
Of the old Pharaohs, 
Could count the Ptolemies' long line ; 
Each mighty Myth's original hath seen. 
Apis, Anubis — Ghosts that haunt between 

The Bestial and Divine — 
(Such, He that sleeps in Philoe — He that 
stands 
In gloom, unworshipped, 'neath his rock- 
hewn fane — 
And They who, sitting on Memnoniau 
sands. 
Cast their long shadows o'er the desert 
plain :) 
Hath marked Nitocris pass. 
And Ozymandias 
Deep-versed in many a dark Egyptian 
wile; 
The Hebrew Boy hath eyed 
Cold to the master's bride: 
And that Medusan stare hath frozen the 
smile 
Of Her all love and guile. 
For whom the Caesar sighed. 
And the World-Loser died — 
The Darling of the Nile. 



€l[)cotsorc OD'j^ara 



THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD 

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 

The soldier's last tattoo; 
No more on Life's parade shall meet 

That brave and fallen few. 
On Fame's eternal camping-ground 

Their silent tents are spread, 
And Glory guards, with solemn round, 

The bivouac of the dead. 

No rumor of the foe's advance 

Now swells upon the wind; 
No troubled thought at midnight haunts 

Of loved ones left behind; 
No vision of the morrow's strife 

The warrior's dream alarms; 



No braying horn nor screaming fife 
At dawn shall call to arms. 

Their shivered swords are red with rust. 

Their plumed heads are bowed; 
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust. 

Is now their martial shroud. 
And plenteous funeral tears have washed 

The red stains from each brow, 
And the proud forms, by battle gashed. 

Are free from anguish now. 

The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 

The bugle's stirring blast. 
The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 

The din and shout, are past; 



THEODORE O'HARA — MARIA WHITE LOWELL 



249 



Not war's wild note nor glory's peal- 
Shall thrill with fierce delight 

Those breasts that nevermore may feel 
The rapture of the fight. 

Like the fierce northern hurricane 

That sweeps his great plateau, 
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, 

Came down the serried foe. 
Who heard the thunder of the fray 

Break o'er the field beneath, 
Knew well the watchword of that day 

Was " Victory or Death." 

Long had the doubtful conflict raged 

O'er all that stricken plain, 
For never fiercer fight had waged 

The vengeful blood of Spain; 
And still the storm of battle blew, 

Still swelled the gory tide; 
Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, 

Such odds his strength could bide. 

*T was in that hour his stern command 

Called to a martyr's grave 
The flower of his beloved land. 

The nation's flag to save. 
By rivers of their fathers' gore 

His first-born laurels grew. 
And well he deemed the sons would pour 

Their lives for glory too. 

Full many a norther's breath has swept 

O'er Angostura's plain. 
And long the pitying sky has wept 

Above its mouldered slain. 
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, 

Or shepherd's pensive lay. 



Alone awakes each sullen height 
That frowned o'er that dread fray. 

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 

Ye must not slumber there, 
Where stranger steps and tongues resound 

Along the heedless air. 
Your own proud land's heroic soil 

Shall be your fitter grave : 
She claims from war his richest spoil — 

The ashes of her brave. 

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, 

Far from the gory field. 
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 

On many a bloody shield; 
The sunshine of their native sky 

Smiles sadly on them here, 
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 

The heroes' sepulchre. 

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead ! 

Dear as the blood ye gave; 
No impious footstep here shall tread 

The herbage of your grave; 
Nor shall your glory be forgot 

While Fame her record keeps, 
Or Honor points the hallowed spot 

Where Valor proudly sleeps. 

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone 

In deathless song shall tell. 
When many a vanished age hath flown, 

The story how ye fell; 
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, 

Nor Time's remorseless doom, 
Shall dim one ray of glory's light 

That gilds your deathless tomb. 



Q^aria Wf^itt flotodi 



SONG 



BIRD, thou dartest to the sun, 

When morning beams first spring, 

And I, like thee, would swiftly run; 

As sweetly would I sing. 

Thy burning heart doth draw thee up 

Unto the source of fire; 

Thou drinkest from its glowing cup 

A.nd quenchest thy desire. 



dew, thou droppest soft below, 
And pearlest all the ground. 

Yet, when the morning comes, I know 
Thou never canst be found. 

1 would like thine had been my birth; 
Then I, without a sigh. 

Might sleep the night through on the 

earth 
To waken in the sky. 



250 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



clouds, ye little tender sheep, 


As from the trellis smiles the flower 


Pastured in fields of blue, 


And opens to the day. 


"While moon and stars your fold can keep 




And gently shepherd you, 


But not so beautiful they rear 


Let me, too, follow in the train 


Their airy cups of blue. 


That flocks across the night, 


As turned her sweet eyes to the light, 


Or lingers on the open plain 


Brimmed with sleep's tender dew; 


With new-shorn fleeces white. 


And not so close their tendrils fine 




Round their supports are thrown. 


singing winds, that wander far, 


As those dear arms whose outstretched plea 


Yet always seem at home, 


Clasped all hearts to her own. 


And freely play 'twixt star and star 




Along the bending dome, 


We used to think how she had come, 


I often listen to your song. 


Even as comes the flower, 


Yet never hear you say 


The last and perfect added gift 


One word of all tlie happy worlds 


To crown Love's morning hour; 


That sing so far away. 


And how in her was imaged forth 




The love we could not say, 


For they are free, ye all are free, 


As on the little dewdrops round 


And bird, and dew, and light. 


Shines back the heart of day. 


Can dart upon the azure sea 




And leave me to my night; 


We never could have thought, God, 


Oh, would like theirs had been my birth, 


That she must wither up. 


Then I, without a sigh. 


Almost before a day was flown. 


Might sleep this night through on the 


Like the morning-glory's cup; 


earth 


We never thought to see her droop 


To waken in the sky. 


Her fair and noble head. 




Till she lay stretched before our eyes, 




Wilted, and cold, and dead ! 


THE MORNING-GLORY 


The morning-glory's blossoming 




Will soon be coming round — 


We wreathed about our darling's head 


We see the rows of heart-shaped leaves 


The morning-glory bright; 


Upspriuging from the ground; 


Her little face looked out beneath, 


The tender things the winter killed 


So full of life and light, 


Renew again their birth. 


So lit as with a sunrise, 


But the glory of our morning 


That we could only say. 


Has passed away from earth. 


" She is the morning-glory true. 




And her poor types are they." 


Earth ! in vain our aching eyes 




Stretch over thy green plain ! 


So always from that happy time 


Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air 


We called her by their name, 


Her spirit to sustain; 


And very fitting did it seem — 


But up in groves of Paradise 


For, sure as morning came. 


Full surely we shall see 


Behind her cradle bars she smiled 


Our morning-glory beautiful 


To catch the first faint ray, 


Twine round our dear Lord's knee. 



€l)oma^ 2B>uc]i)anan iHcab 



THE CLOSING SCENE 

Within his sober realm of leafless trees 
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air; 



Like some tanned reaper in his hour of 
ease, 
When all the fields are lying brown and 
bare. 



THOMAS BUCHANAN READ 



251 



The gray barns looking from their lazy 
hills 
O'er the dim waters widening in the 
vales, 
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills, 
On the dull thunder of alternate flails. 

All sights were mellowed and all sounds 
subdued, 
The hills seemed farther and the streams 
sang low; 
As in a dream the distant woodman 
hewed 
His winter log with many a muffled 
blow. 

The embattled forests, erewhile armed in 
gold, 
Their banners bright with every martial 
hue, 
Now stood, like some sad beaten host of 
old. 
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest 
blue. 

On slumbrous wings the vulture held his 
flight; 
The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's 
complaint; 
And, like a star slow drowning in the 
light. 
The village church-vane seemed to pale 
and faint. 

The sentinel-cock upon the hill-side 
crew, — 
Crew thrice, and all was stiller than be- 
fore. 
Silent till some replying warder blew 
His alien horn, and then was heard no 
more. 

Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall 
crest. 
Made garrulous trouble round her un- 
fledged young, 
And where the oriole hung her swaying 
nest. 
By every light wind like a censer swung; 

Where sang the noisy masons of the 
eaves. 

The busy swallows, eircling ever near, 
Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, 

An early harvest and a plenteous year; 



Where every bird which charmed the vernal 
feast 
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings 
at morn. 
To warn the reaper of the rosy east, — 
All now was songless, empty, and for- 
lorn. 

Alone from out the stubble piped the 
quail, 
And croaked the crow through all the 
dreamy gloom; 
Alone the pheasant, drumming in the 
vale, 
Made echo to the distant cottage loom. 

There was no bud, no bloom upon the 
bowers; 
The spiders wove their thin shrouds night 
hj night; 
The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, 
Sailed slowly by, passed noiseless out of 
sight. 

Amid all this, in this most cheerless air. 
And where the woodbine shed upon the 
porch 
Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood 
there 
Firing the floor with his inverted torch; 

Amid all this, the centre of the scene. 
The white-haired matron, with monoto- 
nous tread. 
Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless 
mien. 
Sat, like a Fate, and watched the flying 
thread. 

She had known Sorrow, — he had walked 
with her, 
Oft supped and broke the bitter ashen 
crust; 
And in the dead leaves still she heard the 
stir 
Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. 

While yet her cheek was bright with sum- 
mer bloom. 
Her country summoned and she gave her 
all; 
And twice War bowed to her his sable 
plume, — 
Regave the swords to rust upon her 
wall. 



252 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION 111 



Kegave the swords, — but not the hand 
that drew 
And struck for Liberty its dying blow, 
Nor him who, to his sire and country true, 
Fell mid the ranks of the invading 
foe. 

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went 

on. 

Like the low murmur of a hive at noon; 

Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone 

Breathed through her lips a sad and 

tremulous tune. 

At last the thread was snapped — her head 
was bowed; 
Life dropped the distaff through his 
hands serene, — 
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful 
shroud, 
While Death and Winter closed the au- 
tumn scene. 



LINES TO A BLIND GIRL 

Blind as the song of birds, 
Feeling its way into the heart, 

Or as a thought ere it hath words, — 
As blind thou art: 

Or as a little stream 

A dainty hand might guide apart. 
Or Love — young Love's delicious dream — 

As blind thou art: 

Or as a slender bark, 

Where summer's varying breezes start, 
Or blossoms blowing in the dark, — 

As blind thou art: 

Or as the Hope, Desire 

Leads from the bosom's erowdedmart. 
Deluded Hope, that soon must tire, — 

As blind thou art: 

The chrysalis, that folds 

The wings that shall in light depart, 
Is not more blind than that which holds 

The wings within thy heart. 

For when thy soul was given 

Unto the earth, a beauteous trust, 

To guard its matchless glory. Heaven 
Endunsreoned it in dust. 



DRIFTING 



My soul to-day 

Is far away, 
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; 

My winged boat, 

A bird afloat. 
Swings round the purple 



remote: — 

Round purple peaks 

It sails, and seeks 
Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, 

Where high rocks throw, 

Through deeps below, 
A duplicated golden glow. 

Far, vague, and dim, 

The mountains swim; 
While on Vesuvius' misty brim, 

With outstretched hands. 

The gray smoke stands 
O'erlooking the volcanic lands. 

Here Ischia smiles 

O'er liquid miles; 
And yonder, bluest of the isles, 

Calm Capri waits, 

Her sapphire gates 
Beguiling to her bright estates. 

I heed not, if 

My rippling skiff 
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise. 

Under the walls 

Where swells and falls 
The Bay's deep breast at intervals 

At peace I lie. 

Blown softly by, 
A cloud upon this liquid sky. 

The day, so mild. 

Is Heaven's own child, 
With Earth and Ocean reconciled; 

The airs I feel 

Around me steal 
Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. 

Over the rail 

My hand I trail 
Within the shadow of the sail, 

A joy intense. 

The cooling sense 
Glides down my drowsy indolence. 



THOMAS B. READ — FRANCIS O. TICKNOR 



253 



With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Where Summer sings and never dies, — 

O'erveiled with vines 

She glows and shines 
Among her future oil and wines. 


Yon deep bark goes 

Where traffic blows. 
From lands of sun to lands of snows; 

This happier one, — 

Its course is run 
From lands of snow to lauds of sun. 


Her children, hid 

The cliffs amid. 
Are gambolling with the gambolling kid; 

Or down the walls, 

With tipsy calls, 
Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. 


happy ship, 

To rise and dip, 
With the blue crystal at your lip I 

happy crew, 

My heart with you 
Sails, and sails, and sings anew ! 


The fisher's child, 

With tresses wild, 
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, 

With glowing lips 

Sings as she skips, 
Or gazes at the far-off ships. 


No more, no more 

The worldly shore 
Upbraids me with its loud uproar: 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise ! 



frantic <^tutp €ithmt 



A SONG FOR THE ASKING 

A SONG ! What songs have died 

Upon the earth, 
Voices of love and pride — 

Of tears and mirth ? 
Fading as hearts forget, 

As shadows flee ! 
Vain is the voice of song, 
And yet — 

I sing to thee ! 

A song ! What ocean shell 

Were silent long, 
If in thy touch might dwell 

Its all of song ? 
A song ? Then near my heart 

Thy cheek must be, 
For, like the shell, it sings — 
Sweet Heart — 
To thee, of thee ! 



THE VIRGINIANS OF THE 
VALLEY 

The knightliest of the knightly race 
That, since the days of old. 



Have kept the lamp of chivalry 

Alight in hearts of gold; 
The kindliest of the kindly band 

That, rarely hating ease, 
Yet rode with Spotswood round the land, 

And Raleigh round the seas ; 

Who climbed the blue Virginian hills 

Against embattled foes. 
And planted there, in valleys fair, 

The lily and the rose; 
Whose fragrance lives in many lands, 

Whose beauty stars the earth. 
And lights the hearths of happy homes 

With loveliness and worth. 

We thought they slept ! — the sons who 
kept 

The names of noble sires, 
And slumbered while the darkness crept 

Around their vigil fires; 
But aye the "Golden Horseshoe " knights 

Their old Dominion keep, 
Whose foes have found enchanted ground. 

But not a knight asleep. 



254 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



LITTLE GIFFEN 

Out of the focal and foremost fire, 
Out of the hospital walls as dire; 
Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene, 
(Eighteenth battle, and he sixteen !) 
Spectre ! such as you seldom see, 
Little Giffen, of Tennessee ! 

" Take him and welcome ! " the surgeons 

said; 
Little the doctor can help the dead ! 
So we took him ; and brought him where 
The balm was sweet in the summer air; 
And we laid him down on a wholesome 

bed, — 
Utter Lazarus, heel to head ! 

And we watched the war with abated 

breath, — 
Skeleton Boy against skeleton Death. 
Months of torture, how many such ? 
Weary weeks of the stick and crutch; 
And still a glint of the steel-blue eye 
Told of a spirit that would n't die. 



And did n't. Nay, more ! in death's despite 
The crippled skeleton " learned to write." 
" Dear mother," at first, of course; and 

then 
" Dear captain," inquiring about the men. 
Captain's answer: " Of eighty-and-five, 
Giffen and I are left alive." 

Word of gloom from the war, one day ; 
Johnson pressed at the front, they say. 
Little Giffen was up and away; 
A tear — his first — as he bade good-by. 
Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye. 
" I '11 write, if spared ! " There was news 

of the fight ; 
But none of Giffen. — He did not write. 

I sometimes fancy that, were I king 

Of the princely Knights of the Golden 

Ring, 
With the song of the minstrel in mine ear. 
And the tender legend that trembles here, 
I 'd give the best on his bended knee, 
The whitest soul of my chivalry, 
For " Little Giffen," of Tennessee. 



d§>amud Sloftn^on 



THE CITY OF GOD 

City of God, how broad and far 
Outspread thy walls sublime ! 

The true thy chartered freemen are, 
Of every age and clime. 

One holy Church, one army strong. 

One steadfast high intent. 
One working band, one harvest-song, 

One King Omnipotent. 

How purely hath thy speech come down 

From man's primeval youth; 
How grandly hath thine empire grown 

Of Freedom, Love, and Truth ! 

How gleam thy watchfires through the 
night. 

With never fainting ray; 
How rise thy towers, serene and bright. 

To meet the dawning day ! 

In vain the surge's angry shock, 
In vain the drifting sands; 



Unharmed, upon the Eternal Rock, 
The Eternal City stands. 



INSPIRATION 

Life of Ages, richly poured. 
Love of God, unspent and free. 
Flowing in the Prophet's word 
And the People's liberty ! 

Never was to chosen race 
That unstinted tide confined; 
Thine is every time and place. 
Fountain sweet of heart and mind \ 

Secret of the morning stars, 
Motion of the oldest hours, 
Pledge through elemental wars 
Of the coming spirit's powers ! 

Rolling planet, flaming sun, 
Stand in nobler man complete; 
Prescient laws Thine errands run. 
Frame the shrine for Godhead meet. 



SAMUEL JOHNSON — ERASTUS WOLCOTT ELLSWORTH 255 



Homeward led, the wondering eye 
Upward yearned in joy or awe, 
Found the love that waited nigh, 
Guidance of Thy guardian Law. 

In the touch of earth it thrilled; 
Down from mystic skies it burned: 
Right obeyed and passion stilled 
Its eternal gladness earned. 

Breathing in the thinker's creed, 
Pulsing in the hero's blood, 



Nerving simplest thought and deed, 
Freshening time with truth and good, 

Consecrating art and song. 
Holy book and pilgrim track, 
Hurling floods of tyrant wrong 
From the sacred limits back, — 

Life of Ages, richly poured. 
Love of God, unspent and free, 
Flow still in the Prophet's word 
And the People's liberty ! 



oBraisftu^ IBokott ^n^hjortfj 



FROM "WHAT IS THE USE?" 

I SAW a man, by some accounted wise. 
For some things said and done before their 

eyes, 
Quite overcast, and, in a restless muse, 
Pacing a path about, 
And often giving out: 

" What is the use ? " 

Then I, with true respect: "What mean- 
est thou 
By those strange words, and that unsettled 

brow; 
Health, wealth, the fair esteem of ample 
views ? 
To these things thou art born." 
But he, as one forlorn, 
" What is the use ? 

" I have surveyed the sages and their books, 
Man, and the natural world of woods and 

brooks. 
Seeking that perfect good that I would 
choose; 
But And no perfect good. 
Settled, and understood. 
What is the use ? 

" Life, in a poise, hangs trembling on the 

beam. 
Even in a breath bounding to each extreme 
Of joy and sorrow; therefore I refuse 
All beaten ways of bliss, 
And only answer this: 
'What is the use?* 



" Who '11 care for me when I am dead and 

gone ? 
Not many now — and, surely, soon, not 

one; 
And should I sing like an immortal Muse, 
Men, if they read the line, 
Read for their good, not mine; 
What is the use ? 

" And song, if passable, is doomed to pass — 
Common, though sweet as the new-scythed 

grass. 
Of human deeds and thoughts, Time bears 
no news, 
That, flying, he can lack. 
Else they would break his back. 
What is the use ? 

"Spirit of Beauty, breath of golden 

lyres, 
Perpetual tremble of immortal wires. 
Divinely torturing rapture of the Muse, 
Conspicuous wretchedness — 
Thou starry, sole success — 
What is the use ? 

" Doth not all struggle tell, upon its brow. 
That he who makes it is not easy now, 
But hopes to be ? Vain Hope, that dost 
abuse. 
Coquetting with thine eyes, 
And fooling him who sighs ! 
What is the use ? 

" Go, pry the lintels of the pyramids. 
Lift the old kings' mysterious coffin lids: 
This dust was theirs, whose names these 
stones confuse, — 



256 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



These mighty monuments 
Of mighty discontents. 
What is the use ? 

" Did not he sum it all, whose gate* of pearls 
Blazed royal Ophir, Tyre, and Syrian 

girls, — 
The great, wise, famous monarch of the 
Jews ? 
Though rolled in grandeur vast, 
He said of all, at last, 
' What is the use ? ' 

" Oh, but to take of life the nattiral good, 
Even as a hermit caverned in a wood. 
More sweetly fills my sober-suited views, 

Than sweating to attain 

Any luxurious pain. 
What is the use ? 

" Give me a hermit's life, without his beads. 
His lantern-jawed and moral-mouthing 

creeds ; 
Systems and creeds the natural heart abuse. 
What need of any Book, 
Or spiritual crook ? 
What is the use ? 

" I love, and God is love. And I behold 
Man, nature, God, one triple chain of gold, 
Nature in all, sole Oracle and Muse. 

What should I seek at all, 

More than is natural ? 
What is the use ? " 



Seeing this man so heathenly inclined. 
So wilted in the mood of a good mind, 
I felt a kind of heat of earnest thought, 
And studying in reply, 
Answered him, eye to eye : — 

" ^hou dost amaze me that thou dost mis- 
take 
The wandering rivers for the fountain 

lake : 
What is the end of living ? — happiness ? — 
An end that none attain 
Argues a purpose vain. 

" Plainly, this world is not a scope for bliss. 
But duty. Yet we see not all that is, 
Nor may be, some day, if we love the light: 
What man is, in desires. 
Whispers where man aspires. 



" But what and where are we ? — what now 

— to-day ? 
Souls on a globe that spins our lives away, 
A multitudinous world, where heaven and 
hell. 
Strangely in battle met, 
Their gonfalons have set. • 

" Dust though we are, and shall return to 

dust, 
Yet, being born to battles, fight we must; 
Under which ensign is our only choice. 

We know to wage our best; 

God only knows the rest. 

" Then, since we see about us sin and dole. 
And some things good, why not, with hand 

and soul. 
Wrestle and succor out of wrong and sor- 
row; 
Grasping the swords of strife; 
Making the most of life ? 

" Yea, all that we can wield is worth the 

end. 
If sought as God's and man's most loyal 

friend ; 
Naked we come into the world, and take 
Weapons of various skill — 
Let us not use them ill." 



THE MAYFLOWER 

Down in the bleak December bay 
The ghostly vessel stands away; 
Her spars and halyards white with ice, 
Under the dark December skies. 
A hundred souls, in company, 
Have left the vessel pensively, — 
Have touched the frosty desert there. 
And touched it with the knees of prayer. 

And now the day begins to dip, 
The night begins to lower 

Over the bay, and over the ship 
Mayflower. 

Neither the desert nor the sea 
Imposes rites: their prayers are free; 
Danger and toil the wild imposes. 
And thorns must grow before the roses. 
And who are these ? — and what distress 
The savage-acred wilderness 
On mother, maid, and child, may bring, 
Beseems them for a fearful thins:; 



ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH — ELIZABETH STODDARD 



257 



For uow the day begins to dip, 
The night begins to lower 

Over the bay, and over the ship 
Mayflower. 

But Carver leads (in heart and health 
A hero of the commonwealth) 
The axes that the camp requires, 
To build the lodge and heap the fires. 
And Standish from his warlike store 
Arrays his men along the shore. 
Distributes weapons resonant. 
And dons his harness militant; 

For now the day begins to dip. 
The night begins to lower 

Over the bay, and over the ship 
Mayflower; 

And Rose, his wife, unlocks a chest — 
She sees a Book, in vellum drest. 
She drops a tear and kisses the tome, 
Thinking of England and of home: 



Might they — the Pilgrims, there and 

then 
Ordained to do the work of men ~- 
Have seen, in visions of the air. 
While pillowed on the breast of prayer 

(When now the day began to dip, 
The night began to lower 

Over the bay, and over the ship 
Mayflower), 

The Canaan of their wilderness 
A boundless empire of success; 
And seen the years of future nights 
Jewelled with myriad household lights; 
And seen the honey fill the hive; 
And seen a thousand ships arrive; 
And heard the wheels of travel go; 
It would have cheered a thought of woe. 

When now the day began to dip, 
The night began to lower 

Over the bay, and over the ship 
Mayflower. 



€Ii3atiet|j i^tobHarti 



THE POET'S SECRET 

The poet's secret I must know. 
If that will calm my restless mind. 

I hail the seasons as they gd, 

I woo the sunshine, brave the wind. 

I scan the lily and the rose, 

I nod to every nodding tree, 
I follow every stream that flows. 

And wait beside the steadfast sea. 

I question melancholy eyes, 
I touch the lips of women fair: 

Their lips and eyes may make me wise, 
But what I seek for is not there. 

In vain I watch the day and night. 

In vain the world through space may 
roll; 

I never see the mystic light 

Which fills the poet's happy soul. 

Through life I hear the rhythmic flow 
Whose meaning into song must turn; 

Revealing all he longs to know. 
The secret each alone must learn. 



NOVEMBER 

Much have I spoken of the faded leaf; 

Long have I listened to the wailing wind. 
And watched it ploughing through the 
heavy clouds, 

For autumn charms my melancholy mind. 

When autumn comes, the poets sing a 
dirge : 
The year must perish; all the flowers 
are dead; 
The sheaves are gathered; and the mottled 
quail 
Runs in the stubble, but the lark has fled ! 

Still, autumn ushers in the Christmas cheer; 

The holly-berries and the ivy-tree: 
They weave a chaplet for the Old Year's 
bier. 
These waiting mourners do not sing for 
me ! 

I find sweet peace in depths of autumn 
woods, 
Where grow the ragged ferns and 
roughened moss; 



2s8 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



The naked, silent trees have taught me 
this, — 
The loss of beauty is not always loss ! 



UNRETURNING 

Now all the flowers that ornament the 

grass, 
Wherever meadows are and placid brooks, 
Must fall — the " glory of the grass " 

must fall. 
Year after year I see them sprout and 

spread, — 
The golden, glossy, tossing buttercups. 
The tall, straight daisies and red clover 



The swinging bellwort and the blue-eyed 

bent. 
With nameless plants as perfect in their 

hues, — 
Perfect in root and branch, their plan of 

life. 
As if the intention of a soul were there: 
I see them flourish as I see them fall ! 
But he, who once was growing with the 

grass, 
And blooming with the flowers, my little 

son. 
Fell, withered — dead, nor has revived 



again 



Perfect and lovely, needful to my sight. 

Why comes he not to ornament my days ? 

The barren fields forget their barrenness, 

The soulless earth mates with these soul- 
less things. 

Why should I not obtain my recompense ? 

The budding spring should bring, or sum- 
mer's prime, 

At least a vision of the vanished child, 

And let his heart commune with mine 
again. 

Though in a dream — his life was but a 
dream ; 

Then might I wait with patient cheerful- 
ness. 

That cheerfulness which keeps one's tears 
unshed. 

And blinds the eyes with pain — the pas- 
sage slow 

Of other seasons, and be still and cold 

As the earth is when shrouded in the snow, 

Or passive, like it, when the boughs are 
stripped 

In autumn, and the leaves roll everywhere. 



And he should go again; for winter's 

snows. 
And autumn's melancholy voice, in winds. 
In waters, and in woods, belong to me, — 
To me, a faded soul; for, as I said. 
The sense of all bis beauty, sweetness, 

comes 
When blossoms are the sweetest; when the 

sea. 
Sparkling and blue, cries to the sun in 

Or, silent, pale, and misty waits the 

night. 
Till the moon, pushing through the veiling 

cloud. 
Hangs naked in its heaving solitude: 
When feathery pines wave up and down 

the shore. 
And the vast deep above holds gentle 

stars, 
And the vast world beneath hides him 

from me ! 



IN THE STILL, STAR-LIT NIGHT 

In the still, star-lit night. 
By the full fountain and the willow-tree, 

I walked, and not alone — 
A spirit walked with me ! 

A shade fell on the grass ; 
Upon the water fell a deeper shade: 

Something the willow stirred, 
For to and fro it swayed. 

The grass was in a quiver. 
The water trembled, and the willow-tree 

Sighed softly; I sighed loud — 
The spirit taunted me. 

All the night long I walked 
By the full fountain, dropping icy tears; 

I tore the willow leaves, 
I tore the long, green spears ! 

I clutched the quaking grass, 
And beat the rough bark of the willow-tree ; 

I shook the wreathed boughs. 
To make the spirit flee. 

It haunted me till dawn, 
By the full fountain and the willow-tree; 

For with myself I walked — 
How could the spirit flee ? 



ELIZABETH STODDARD 



259 



MERCEDES 

Under a sultry, yellow sky, 

On the yellow sand I lie; 

The crinkled .vapors smite my brain, 

I smoulder in a fiery pain. 

Above the crags the condor flies; 
He knows where the red gold lies, 
He knows where the diamonds shine;- 
If I knew, would she be mine ? 

Mercedes in her hammock swings; 
In her court a palm-tree flings 
Its slender shadow on the ground, 
The fountain falls with silver sound. 

Her lips are like this cactus cup; 
With my hand I crush it up ; 
I tear its flaming leaves apart ; — 
Would that I could tear her heart ! 

Last night a man was at her gate; 
In the hedge I lay in wait; 
I saw Mercedes meet him there, 
By the fireflies in her hair. 

I waited till the break of day. 
Then I rose and stole away; 
But left my dagger in the gate; — 
Now she knows her lover's fate ! 



ON THE CAMPAGNA 

Stop on the Appian Way, 

In the Roman Campagna; 

Stop at my tomb, 
The tomb of Cecilia Metella. 

To-day as you see it 
Alaric saw it, ages ago, 
When he, with his pale-visaged Goths, 
Sat at the gates of Rome, 
Reading his Runic shield. 
Odin, thy curse remains ! 

Beneath these battlements 
My bones were stirred with Roman pride. 
Though centuries before my Romans died: 
Now my bones are dust; the Goths are 

dust. 
The river-bed is dry where sleeps the 
king, 
My tomb remains ! 



When Rome commanded the earth 

Great were the Metelli: 

I was Metellus' wife; 

I loved him — and I died. 
Then with slow patience built he this me- 
morial : 

Each century marks his love. 

Pass by on the Appian Way 

The tomb of Cecilia Metella; 
Wild shepherds alone seek its shelter, 
Wild buffaloes tramp at its base. 

Deep is its desolation. 

Deep as the shadow of Rome ! 



A SUMMER NIGHT 

I FEEL the breath of the summer night, 

Aromatic fire: 
The trees, the vines, the flowers are astir 

With tender desire. 

The white moths flutter about the lamp, 

Enamoured with light; 
And a thousand creatures softly sing 

A song to the night ! 

But I am alone, and how can I sing 

Praises to thee ? 
Come, Night ! unveil the beautiful soul 

That waiteth for me. 



LAST DAYS 

As one who follows a departing friend, 
Destined to cross the great, dividing sea, 
I watch and follow these departing days. 
That go so grandly, lifting up their crowns 
Still regal, though their victor Autumn 

comes. 
Gifts they bestow, which I accept, return, 
As gifts exchanged between a loving pair, 
Who may possess them as memorials 
Of pleasures ended by the shadow — Death. 
What matter which shall vanish hence, if 

both 
Are transitory — me, and these bright 

hours — 
And of the future ignorant alike ? 
From all our social thralls I would be free. 
Let care go down the wind — as hounds 

afar. 
Within their kennels baying unseen foes, 



26o 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Give to calm sleepers only calmer dreams. 
Here will I rest alone: the morning mist 
Conceals no form but mine; the evening 

dew 
Freshens but faded flowers and my worn 

face. 
When the noon basks among the wooded 

hills 
I too will bask, as silent as the air 
So thick with sun-motes, dyed like yellow 

gold. 
Or colored purple like an unplucked plum. 
The thrush, now lonesome, for her young 

have flown, 
May flutter her brown wings across my 

path; 



And creatures of the sod with brilliant 

eyes 
May leap beside me, and familiar grow. 
The moon shall rise among her floating 

clouds, 
Black, vaporous fans, and crinkled globes 

of pearl, 
And her sweet silver light be given to 

me. 
To watch and follow these departing days 
Must be my choice; and let me mated be 
With Solitude; may memory and hope 
Unite to give me faith that nothing dies; 
To show me always, what I pray to know, 
That man alone may speak the word — 

Farewell. 



€l[jomai^ Slahc J^arti^ 



CALIFORNIA 

The Grecian Muse, to earth who bore 
Her goblet filled with wine of gold, 

Dispersed the frown that Ages wore 
Upon their foreheads grim and cold, 
What time the lyric thunders rolled. 

O'er this new Eden of the West 
The mightier Muse enkindles now: 

Her joy-lyre fashions in my breast, 

And wreathes the song-crown for my 

brow. 
Ere yet her loftier powers avow. 

Though like Tithonus old and gray, 
I serve her mid the swords and shields; 

Her being opens for my way, 
And there I find Elysian fields; 
And there I dwell while Nature yields. 

My Dian of the sparkling West, 
My lady of the silver bow ! 

Here, where the savage man made quest 
For golden spoils in earth that grow> 
She leads the Golden Age below. 

Beneath her feet the maiden May 

Sits crowned with roses where I sing. 

My brows with frosted age are gray. 
But all my being glows for spring: 
A golden youth 't is hers to bring. 



So in her, for her, I abide, 

And taste the goblets of her bliss; 

Upon the hills with morning dyed, 
All as a new acropolis, 
Her shrine shall yet arise, I wis. 

And here shall greater Hellas burn, 
Irradiant for the Solar Powers; 

And men the love of strife unlearn, 

Tasting from lips that breathe of flowers, 
Made young by joys that live from ours. 



FLEDGLINGS 

Why should we waste and weep ? 

The Summers weave 
A nest of blossoms deep. 

Sad hearts, why grieve ? 
We downy birdlings are 

Unfledged for flight: 
God's love-wind woos afar; 

Its name, Delight. 

From arcades vast and dim 

What songs disthrall ? 
Through Nature's endless hymn, 

Our kindred call. 
Mysterious murmurings, 

When night is lone. 
Glide, as to lift our wings 

For flights unknown. 



THOMAS LAKE HARRIS — GEORGE HENRY BOKER 261 



lu melody we form, 


Dream on deliciously 


By sweetness fill: .- 


Deep in thy dreamland bowers. 


For gladuess, pure and warm, 


Waken us not again. 


Our bosoms thrill. 


Beating upon our shore, 


Soon shall our choiring bands, 


Rousing the strife in men 


Upborne for glee, 


With full and thunderous roar. 


Find in God's garden lands 




Their bridal tree. 


Drop from thy crested heights, 




To still repose and rest; 


Eternity prepares 


Fold us in hushed delights, 


Her gift in Time, 


With dream-flowers from thy breast: 


And flows by fragrant airs 


Not as the poppies are 


That lead the prime. 


But lilies cool, that weep 


Chill shadows touch the eyes; 


Tears that as kisses scar 


Their orbs are wet; 


To soothe for slumbers deep. 


But God shall for us rise, 




When stars have set. 


Hush thou the little waves. 




Hush with a low-voiced song. 




Till the Under-Deep that laves 


SEA-SLEEP 


Thy lucid floor lifts strong; 




Till the Under- Word is borne 


Sleep, sleep, sleep 


To this weary world of ours, 


In thy folded waves, Sea ! 


And lives, for love that mourn. 


Till the quiet breathings creep, 


Fold as the dew-dipped flowers. 


With a low-voiced melody, 




Out of the glimmering deep. 


Rest thou in time's unrest. 


For sleep is the close of life; 


In the bloom-bell and the brain; 


'T is the end of love, and its birth; 


Then loose, all silver-tressed, 


'T is the quieting of strife, 


The streamings of thy mane: 


And the silencing of mirth. 


Gliding, dissolving so, 


Hush and sleep ! 


That we at peace may be. 




Sleep in thy silver glow. 


Close thou thy lids, Sea, 


Thy azure calm, Sea; 


On palaces and towers; 


Make lullaby ! 



^Bcorgc ^enrp 25oftei:^ 



A BALLAD OF SIR JOHN 

FRANKLIN 

O, WHITHER sail you. Sir John Franklin ? 

Cried a whaler in Baffin's Bay. 
To know if between the land and the pole 

I may find a broad sea-way. 

I charge you back, Sir John Franklin, 
As you wonld live and thrive ; 

For between the land and the frozen pole 
No raan may sail alive. 

But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, 
And spoke unto his men: 



Half England is wrong, if he be right; 
Bear off to westward then. 

O, wliither sail you, brave Englishman ? 

Cried the little Esquimau. 
Between your land and the polar star 

My goodly vessels go. 

Come down, if you would journey there, 

The little Indian said; 
And change your cloth for fur clothing, 

Your vessel for a sled. 

But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, 
And the crew laughed with him too: — • 



1 See Biographical Note, p. 



262 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



A sailor to change from ship to sled, 
I weeu, were something new. 

All through the long, long polar day, 

The vessels westward sped; 
And wherever the sail of Sir John was 
blown, 

The ice gave way and fled: — 

Gave way with many a hollow groan, 

And with many a surly roar, 
But it murmured and threatened on every 
side. 

And closed where he sailed before. 

Ho ! see ye not, my merry men, 

The broad and open sea ? 
Bethink ye what the whaler said. 
Think of the little Indian's sled ! 

The crew laughed out in glee. 

Sir John, Sir John, 't is bitter cold, 
The scud drives on the breeze, 

The ice comes looming from the north. 
The very sunbeams freeze. 

Bright summer goes, dark winter comes, — 

We cannot rule the year; 
But long ere summer's sun goes down, 

On yonder sea we '11 steer. 

The dripping icebergs dipped and rose. 
And floundered down the gale; 

The ships were stayed, the yards were 
manned, 
And furled the useless sail. 

The summer 's gone, the winter's come,. — 

We sail not on yonder sea: 
Why sail we not. Sir John Franklin ? — 

A silent man was he. 

The summer goes, the winter comes, — 

We cannot rule the year: 
I ween we cannot rule the ways. 

Sir John, wherein we 'd steer. 

The cruel ice came floating on, 

And closed beneath the lee, 
Till the thickening waters dashed no more : 
'T was ice around, behind, before — 

My God ! there is no sea ! 

W^hat think you of the whaler now ? 
What of the Esquimau ? 



A sled were better than a ship. 
To cruise through ice and snow. 

Down sank the baleful crimson sun. 
The northern light came out. 

And glared upon the ice-bound ships, 
And shook its spears about. 



The 



down, storm breeding 



snow came 
storm. 

And on the decks was laid, 
Till the weary sailor, sick at heart, 
Sank down beside his spade. 

Sir John, the night is black and long. 

The hissing wind is bleak. 
The hard, green ice as strong as death: — 

I prithee, Captain, speak ! 

The night is neither bright nor short, 

The singing breeze is cold, — 
The ice is not so strong as hope, 

The heart of man is bold ! 

What hope can scale this icy wall, 

High over the main flag-staff ? 
Above the ridges the wolf and bear 
Look down, with a patient, settled stare, 
Look down on us and laugh. 

The summer went, the winter came, — 

We could not rule the year; 
But summer will melt the ice again. 
And open a path to the sunny main. 

Whereon our ships shall steer. 

The winter went, the summer went. 

The winter came around; 
But the hard, green ice was strong as 

death. 
And the voice of hope sank to a breath, 

Yet caught at every sound. 

Hark ! heard you not the noise of guns ? — 

And there, and there, again ? 
'T is some uneasy iceberg's roar. 

As he turns in the frozen main. 

Hurra ! Hurra ! the Esquimaux 

Across the ice-fields steal: 
God give them grace for their charity ! — 

Ye pray for the silly seal. 

Sir John, where are the English fields, 
And where are the English trees, 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



263 



And where are the little Euglish flowers 


He gave her broad silver and gold for his 


That open in the breeze ? 


will: 




She glanced at the stranger, she glanced 


Be still, be still, my brave sailors ! 


o'er the sill; 


You shall see the fields again, 


The maiden was gentle and merry. 


And smell the scent of the opening flowers, 




The grass, and the waving grain. 


" ! what would you give for your virtue 




again ? " — 


Oh ! when shall I see my orphan child ? 


Ferry me over the ferry, — 


My Mary waits for me. 


" ! silver and gold on your lordship I 'd 


Oh ! when shall I see my old mother, 


rain, 


And pray at her trembling knee ? 


I 'd double your pleasure, I 'd double my 




pain, 


Be still, be still, my brave sailors ! 


This moment forever to bury." 


Think not such thoughts again. 




But a tear froze slowly on his cheek: 




He thought of Lady Jane. 






TO ENGLAND 


Ah ! bitter, bitter grows the cold, 




The ice grows more and more ; 


Lear and Cordelia ! 't was an ancient tale 


More settled stare the wolf and bear, 


Before thy Shakespeare gave it deathless 


More patient than before. 


fame: 




The times have changed, the moral is the 


0, think you, good Sir John Franklin, 


same. 


We '11 ever see the land ? 


So like an outcast, dowerless, and pale. 


'T was cruel to send us here to starve, 


Thy daughter went; and in a foreign gale 


Without a helping hand. 


Spread her young banner, till its sway be- 


'T was cruel. Sir John, to send us here, 


came 
A wonder to the nations. Days of shame 


So far from help or home, 


Are close upon thee: prophets raise their 


To starve and freeze on this lonely sea: 


wail. 


I ween the lords of the Admiralty 


When the rude Cossack with an out- 


Would rather send than come. 


stretched hand 




Points his long spear across the narrow 


Oh ! whether we starve to death alone, 


sea, — 


Or sail to our own country. 


" Lo ! there is England ! " when thy destiny 


We have done what man has never done — 


Storms on thy straw-crowned head, and 


The truth is founded, the secret won — 


thou dost stand 


We passed the Northern Sea ! 


Weak, helpless, mad, a by- word in the 




land, — 




God grant thy daughter a Cordelia be ! 


THE FERRY 




There was a gay maiden lived down by 


TO MY LADY 


the mill, — 




Ferry me over the ferry, — 


I 


Her hair was as bright as the waves of a 


I 'll call thy frown a headsman, passing 


• rill. 


grim. 


When the sun on the brink of his setting 


Walking before some wretch foredoomed 


stands still, 


to death. 


Her lips were as full as a cherry. 


Who counts the pantings of his own hard 

breath, 
Wondering how heart can beat, or stead- 


A stranger came galloping over the hill, — 


Ferry me over the ferry, — 


fast limb 



264 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Bear its sad burden to life's awful brim. 
I '11 call thy smile a priest, who slowly 

sayeth 
Soft words of comfort, as the sinner stray- 

eth 
Away in thought ; or sings a holy hymn, 
Full of rich promise, as he walks behind 
The fatal axe with face of goodly cheer, 
And kind inclinings of his saintly ear. 
So, love, thou seest in smiles, or looks un- 
kind, 
Some taste of sweet philosophy I find. 
That seasons all things in our little sphere. 



Why shall I chide the hand of wilful 

Time 
When he assaults thy wondrous store of 

charms ? 
Why charge the gray-beard with a wanton 

crime ? 
Or strive to daunt him with my shrill 

alarms ? 
Or seek to lull him with a silly rhyme : 
So he, forgetful, pause upon his arms, 
And leave thy beauties in their noble prime. 
The sole survivors of his grievous harms ? 
Alas ! my love, though I '11 indeed be- 
moan 
The fatal ruin of thy majesty; 
Yet I '11 remember that to Time alone 
I owed thy birth, thy charms' maturity. 
Thy crowning love with which he vested 

me. 
Nor can reclaim, though all the rest be 

flown. 



DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER 

Close his eyes; his work is done ! 

What to him is friend or foeman, 
Rise of moon, or set of sun, 

Hand of man, or kiss of woman ? 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know: 
Lay him low ! 

As man may, he fought his fight, 

Proved his truth by his endeavor; 
Let him sleep in solemn night. 
Sleep forever and forever. 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know: 
Lay him low ! 

Fold him in his country's stars. 

Roll the drum and fire the volley ! 
What to him are all our wars. 

What but death bemocking folly ? 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

Leave him to God's watching eye, 

Trust him to the hand that made him. 
Mortal love weeps idly by: 

God alone has power to aid him. 

Lay him low, lay him low, 

In the clover or the snow ! 

What cares he ? he cannot know:' 

Lay him low ! 



giofjn mantiolpl^ €|)om]^^on 



MUSIC IN CAMP 

Two armies covered hill and plain, 
Where Rappahannock's waters 

Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain 
Of battle's recent slaughters. 

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents 

In meads of heavenly azure; 
And each dread gun of the elements 

Slept in its hid embrasure. 



The breeze so softly blew it made' 

No forest leaf to quiver, 
And the smoke of the random cannon- 
ade 

Rolled slowly from the river. 

And now, where circling hills looked 
down ! ■ 

With cannon grimly planted, - 

O'er listless camp and silent town 

The golden sunset slanted. 



JOHN RANDOLPH THOMPSON 



265 



When on the fervid air there came 
A strain — now rich, now tender; 

The music seemed itself aflame 

With day's departing splendor. * 

A Federal band, which, eve and morn, 
Played measures brave and nimble, 

Had just struck up, with flute and horn 
And lively clash of cymbal. x 

Down flocked the soldiers to the banks. 

Till, margined by its pebbles. 
One wooded shore was blue with " Yanks," 

And one was gray with " Rebels." 

Then all was still, and then the band. 
With movement light and tricksy. 

Made stream and forest, hill and strand, 
Reverberate with "Dixie." 

The conscious stream with burnished glow 
Went proudly o'er its pebbles. 

But thrilled throughout its deepest flow 
With yelling of the Rebels. 

Again a pause, and then again 
The trumpets pealed sonorous. 

And " Yankee Doodle " was the strain 
To which the shore gave chorus. 

The laughing ripple shoreward flew, 

To kiss the shining pebbles; 
Eioud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue 

Defiance to the Rebels. 

And yet once more the bugles sang 

Above the stormy riot; 
No shout upon the evening rang — 

There reigned a holy quiet. 

The sad, slow stream its noiseless, flood 
Poured o'er the glistening pebbles; 

All silent now the Yankees stood. 
And silent stood the Rebels. 

No unresponsive soul had heard 
That plaintive note's appealing. 

So deeply " Home, Sweet Home " had 
stirred 
The hidden founts of feeling* 

Or Blue or Gray, the soldier sees, 

-As by the wand of fairy, 
The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees, 

The cabin by the prairie. 



Or cold or warm, his native skies 
Bend in their beauty o'er him ; 

Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes, 
His loved ones stand before him. 

As fades the iris after rain 

In April's tearful weather. 
The vision vanished, as the strain 

And daylight died together. 

But memory, waked by music's art. 
Expressed in simplest numbers, 

Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart, 
Made light the Rebel's slumbers. 

And fair the form of music shines, 
That bright, celestial creature. 

Who still, mid war's embattled lines, 
Gave this one touch of Nature. 



ASHBY 

To the brave all homage render; 

Weep, ye skies of June ! 
With a radiance pure and tender, 

Shine, O saddened moon; 
" Dead upon the field of glory," 
Hero fit for song and story. 

Lies our bold dragoon. 

Well they learned, whose hands have slaio 
him, 

Braver, knightlier foe 
Never fought 'gainst Moor or Paynim — 

Rode at Templestowe: 
With a mien how high and joyous, 
'Gainst the hordes that would destroy us 

Went he forth, we know. 

Nevermore, alas ! shall sabre 

Gleam around his crest; 
Fought his fight, fulfilled his labor, 

Stilled his manly breast; 
All unheard sweet nature's cadence. 
Trump of fame and voice of maidens; 

Now he takes his rest. 

Earth, that all too soon hath bound him, 

Gently wrap his clay ! 
Linger lovingly around him, 

Light of dying day ! 
Softly fall, ye summer showers; 
Birds and bees among the flowers 

Make the gloom seem gay. 



266 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Then, throughout the coming ages, ■ 

When his sword is rust, 
And his deeds in classic pages — 

Mindful of her trust 



Shall Virginia, bending lowly, 
Still a ceaseless vigil holy 
Keep above his dust. 



5[ame^ 0^att{)cto Eegar^ 



AMY 

This is the pathway where she walked, 
The tender grass pressed by her feet. 
The laurel boughs laced overhead, 
Shut out the noonday heat. 

The sunshine gladly stole between 

The softly undulating limbs. 
From every blade and leaf arose 
The myriad insect hymns. 

A brook ran murmuring beneath 

The grateful twilight of the trees, 
Where from the dripping pebbles swelled 
A beech's mossy knees. 

And there her robe of spotless white, 

(Pure white such purity beseemed !) 
Her angel face, and tresses bright 
Within the basin gleamed. 

The coy sweetbriers half detained 

Her light hem as we moved along ! 
To hear the music of her voice 

The mockbird hushed his song. 

But now her little feet are still, 
Her lips the Everlasting seal; 
The hideous secrets of the grave 
The weeping eyes reveal. 

The path still winds, the brook descends. 

The skies are bright as then they were. 
My Amy is the only leaf 
In all that forest sear. 



ARAB MOHAMMED 

A PEASANT stood before a king and said, 
" My children starve, I come to thee for 

bread." 
On cushions soft and silken sat enthroned 



The king, and looked on him that prayed 

and moaned, 
Who cried again, — " For bread I come to 

thee." 
For grief, like wine, the tongue will render 

free. 
Then said the prince with simple truth, 

" Behold 
I sit on cushions silken-soft, of gold 
And wrought with skill the vessels which 

they bring 
To fitly grace the banquet of a king. 
But at my gate the Mede triumphant beats, 
And die for food my people in the streets. 
Yet no good father hears his child com- 
plain 
And gives him stones for bread, for alms 

disdain. 
Come, thou and I will sup together — 

come." 
The wondering courtiers saw — saw and 

were dumb: 
Then followed with their eyes where Ahab 

led 
With grace the humble guest, amazed, to 

share his bread. 

Him half abashed the royal host with- 
drew 
Into a room, the curtained doorway through. 
Silent behind the folds of purple closed. 
In marble life the statues stood disposed; 
From the high ceiling, perfume breathing, 

hung 
Lamps rich, pomegranate-shaped, and 

golden-swung. 
Gorgeous the board with massive metal 

shone, 
Gorgeous with gems arose in front a 

throne : 
These through the Orient lattice saw the 

sun. 
If gold there was, of meat and bread was 

none 



JAMES M. LEGARfi— THOMAS W. HIGGINSON 



267 



Save oue small loaf; this stretched his hand 

and took 
Ahab Mohammed, prayed to God, and 

broke : 
One half his yearning nature bid him crave. 
The other gladly to his guest he gave. 
" I have no more to give," he cheerily 

said: 
" With thee I share my only loaf of bread." 
Humbly the stranger took the offered 

crumb 
Yet ate not of it, standing meek and 

dumb ; 
Then lifts his eyes, — the wondering Ahab 

saw 
His rags fall from him as the snow in 

thaw. 
Resplendent, blue, those orbs upon him 

turned; 
All Ahab's soul within him throbbed and 

burned. 

" Ahab Mohammed," spoke the vision then, 
"From this thou shalt be blessed among 

men. 
Go forth — thy gates the Made bewildered 

flees. 
And Allah thank thy people on their knees. 
He who gives somewhat does a worthy 

deed. 
Of him the recording angel shall take heed. 



But he that halves all that his house doth 

hold, 
His deeds are more to God, yea more than 

finest gold." 



TO A LILY 

Go bow thy head in gentle spite, 
Thou lily white. 

For she who spies thee waving here, 
With thee in beauty can compare 
As day with night. 

Soft are thy leaves and white : her arms 
Boast whiter charms. 
Thy stem prone bent with loveliness 
Of maiden grace possesseth less: 
Therein she charms. 

Thou in thy lake dost see 
Thyself: so she 
Beholds her image in her eyes 
Reflected. Thus did Venus rise 
From out the sea. 

Inconsolate, bloom not again. 

Thou rival vain 

Of her whose charms have thine outdone, 

Whose purity might spot the sun, 

And make thy leaf a stain. 



€i[jomajf Jl^enttoottf) J^igginiefon 



ODE TO A BUTTERFLY 

Thou spark of life that wavest wings of 

gold, 
Thou songless wanderer mid the songful 

birds. 
With Nature's secrets in thy tints unrolled 
Through gorgeous cipher, past the reach of 

words. 
Yet dear to every child 
In glad pursuit beguiled. 
Living his unspoiled days mid flowers and 

flocks and herds ! 

Thou winged blossom, liberated thing. 
What secret tie binds thee to other flowers, 
Still held within the garden's fostering ? 



Will they too soar with the completed 
hours, 

Take flight, and be like thee 

Irrevocably free. 
Hovering at will o'er their parental bowers ? 

Or is thy lustre drawn from heavenly 
hues, — 

A sumptuous drifting fragment of the sky, 

Caught when the sunset its last glance im- 
bues 

With sudden splendor, and the tree-tops 
high 
Grasp that swift blazonry, 
Then lend those tints to thee. 

On thee to float a few short hours, and 
die? 



268 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Birds have their nests; they rear their 

eager young, 
And flit on errands all the livelong day; 
Each fieldmouse keeps the homestead 

whence it sprung; 
But thou art Nature's freeman, — free to 

stray 
Unfettered through the vrood, 
Seeking thine airy food, 
The sweetness spiced on every blossomed 

spray. 

The garden one wide banquet spreads for 

thee, 
O daintiest reveller of the joyous earth ! 
One drop of honey gives satiety; 
A second draught would drug thee past all 

mirth. 
Thy feast no orgy shows; 
Thy calm eyes never close. 
Thou soberest sprite to which the sun 

gives birth. 

And yet the soul of man upon thy wings 
Forever soars in aspiration; thou 
His emblem of the new career that springs 
When death's arrest bids all his spirit bow. 

He seeks his hope in thee 

Of immortality. 
Symbol of life, me with such faith endow! 

TO DUTY 

Light of dim mornings; shield from heat 
and cold; 

Balm for all ailments ; substitute for praise ; 

Comrade of those who plod in lonely ways 

(Ways that grow lonelier as the years wax 
old); 

Tonic for fears; check to the over-bold; 

Nurse, whose calm hand its strong restric- 
tion lays, 

Kind but resistless, on our wayward days; 

Mart, where high wisdom at vast price is 
sold ; 

Gardener, whose touch bids the rose-petals 
fall, 

The thorns endure; surgeon, who human 
hearts 

Searchest with probes, though the death- 
touch be given; 

Spell that knits friends, but yearning lov- 
ers parts; 

Tyrant relentless o'er our blisses all ; — 

Oh, can it be, thine other name is Heaven ? 



"THE SNOWING 
PINES' 



OF THE 



Softer than silence, stiller than still air 
Float down from high pine-boughs the 

slender leaves. 
The forest floor its annual boon receives 
That comes like snowfall, tireless, tranquil, 

fair. 
Gently they glide, gently they clothe the 

bare 
Old rocks with grace. Their fall a mantle 

weaves 
Of paler yellow than autumnal sheaves 
Or those strange blossoms the witch-hazels 

wear. 
Athwart long aisles the sunbeams pierce 

their way; 
High up, the crows are gathering for the 

night; 
The delicate needles fill the air; the jay 
Takes through their golden mist his radi- 
ant flight; 
They fall and fall, till at November's close 
The snow-flakes drop as lightly — snows on 

snows. 

DECORATION 

"MANIBUS O DATE LILIA PLENIS " 

Mid the flower-wreathed tombs I stand" 
Bearing lilies in my hand. 
Comrades ! in what soldier-grave 
Sleeps the bravest of the brave ? 

Is it be who sank to rest 
With his colors round his breast ? 
Friendship makes his tomb a shrine; 
Garlands veil it: ask not mine. 

One low grave, yon trees beneath, 
Bears no roses, wears no wreath; 
Yet no heart more high and warm 
Ever dared the battle-storm, 

Never gleamed a prouder eye 
In the front of victory. 
Never foot had firmer tread 
On the field where hope lay dead, 

Than are hid within this tomb. 
Where the untended grasses bloom, 
And no stone, with feigned distress, 
Mocks the sacred loneliness. 



THOMAS W. HIGGINSON — CHARLES G. LELAND 



26g 



Youth and beauty, dauntless will, 
Dreams that life could ne'er fulfil, 
Here lie buried; here iu peace 
Wrongs and woes have found release. 

Turning from my comrades' eyes, 
Kneeling where a woman lies, 
I strew lilies on the grave 
Of the bravest of the brave. 



"SINCE CLEOPATRA DIED" 

" Since Cleopatra died ! " Long years 

are past. 
In Antony's fancy, since the deed was 

done. 
Love counts its epochs, not from sun to 

sun. 
But by the heart-tbrob. Mercilessly fast 
Time has swept onward since she looked 

her last 
On life, a queen. For him the sands have 

run 
Whole ages through their glass, and kings 

have won 
And lost their empires o'er earth's surface 

vast 
Since Cleopatra died. Ah ! Love and Pain 
Make their own measure of all things that 

be. 



No clock's slow ticking marks their death- 
less strain; 
The life they own is not the life we see; 
Love's single moment is eternity: 
Eternity, a thought in Shakespeare's brain. 



"SUCH STUFF AS DREAMS 
ARE MADE OF" 

Novr all the cloudy shapes that float and 

lie 
Within this magic globe we call the brain 
Fold quite away, condense, withdraw, re- 
frain, 
And show it tenantless — an empty sky. 
Return, O parting visions, pass not by; 
Nor leave me vacant still, with strivings 

vain. 
Longing to grasp at your dim garment's 

train, 
And be drawn on to sleep's immunity. 
I lie and pray for fancies hovering near; 
Oblivion's kindly troop, illusions blest; 
Dim, trailing phantoms in a world too 

clear; 
Soft, downy, shadowy forms, my spirit's 

nest; 
The warp and woof of sleep; till, freed 

from fear, 
I drift in sweet enchantment back to rest. 



€f)arlc^ oBotifrep Helanti 



EL CAPITAN-GENERAL 

There was a captain-general who ruled in 
Vera Cruz, 

And what we used to hear of him was 
always evil news: 

He was a pirate on the sea — a robber on 
the shore, 

The SeiSor Don Alonzo Estabdn San Salva- 
dor. 

There was a Yankee skipper who round 
about did roam ; 

His name was Stephen Folger, and Nan- 
tucket was his home: 

And having gone to Vera Cruz, he had 
been skinned full sore 

By the Senor Don Alonzo Estabdn San 
Salvador. 



But having got away alive, though all his 
cash was gone. 

He said, " If there is vengeance, I will 
surely try it on ! 

And I do wish I may be damned if I don't 
clear the score 

With Senor Don Alonzo Estab^n San Sal- 
vador ! " 

He shipped a crew of seventy men — well- 
armed men were they. 

And sixty of them in the hold he darkly 
stowed away; 

And, sailing back to Vera Cruz, was sighted 
from the shore 

By the Seiior Don Alonzo Estab^n San 
Salvador. 



270 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



With twenty-five soldados he came on 

board so pleased, 
And said, " Maldito Yankee — again your 

ship is seized. 
How many sailors have you got ? " Said 

Folger, "Ten — no more," 
To the Captain Don Alonzo Estabdn San 

Salvador. 

" But come into my cabin and take a glass 
of wine. 

I do suppose, as usual, I '11 have to pay a 
fine: 

I have got some old Madeira, and we '11 
talk the matter o'er — 

My Captain Don Alonzo Estabsln San Sal- 
vador." 

And as over that Madeira the captain-gen- 
eral boozed, 

It seemed to him as if his head was getting 
quite confused; 

For it happened that some morphine had 
travelled from " the store " 

To the glass of Don Alonzo Estabdn San 
Salvador. 

" What is it makes the vessel roll ? What 
sounds are these I hear ? 

It seems as if the rising waves were beat- 
ing on my ear ! " — r 

" Oh, it is the breaking of the surf — just 
that and nothing more. 

My Captain Don Alonzo Estabdn San Sal- 
vador ! " 

The governor was in a sleep which mud- 
dled all his brains; 

The seventy men had got his gang and put 
them all in chains; 

And when he woke the following day he 
could not see the shore. 

For he was out on the blue water — the 
Don San Salvador. 

*' Now do you see that yard-arm — and 
understand the thing ? " 

Said Captain Folger. " For all from that 
yard-arm you shall swing, 

Or forty thousand dollars you shall pay me 
from your store. 

My Captain Don Alonzo Estabdn San Sal- 
vador." 



The Capitano took a pen — the order he 
did sign — 

" O Senor Yankee ! but you charge amaz- 
ing high for wine ! " 

But 't was not till the draft was paid they 
let him go ashore, 

El Senor Don Alonzo Estabdn San Salva- 
dor. 

The greatest sharp some day will find an- 
other sharper wit; 

It always makes the Devil laugh to see a 
biter bit; 

It takes two Spaniards any day to come a 
Yankee o'er — 

Even two like Don Alonzo Estabd,n San 
Salvador. 



THE TWO FRIENDS 

I HAVE two friends — two glorious friends 
— two better could not be. 

And every night when midnight tolls they 
meet to laugh with me. 

The first was shot by Carlist thieves — ten 

years ago in Spain. 
The second drowned near Alicante — while 

I alive remain. 

I love to see their dim white forms come 
floating through the night. 

And grieve to see them fade away in early 
morning light. 

The first with gnomes in the Under Land 

is leading a lordly life. 
The second has married a mermaiden, a 

beautiful water-wife. 

And since I have friends in the Earth 
and Sea — with a few, I trust, on 
high, 

'T is a matter of small account to me — 
the way that I may die. 

For whether I sink in the foaming flood, 
or swing on the triple tree, 

Or die in my bed, as a Christian should, is 
all the same to me. 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



27T 



23aparti Caplor 



ARIEL IN THE CLOVEN PINE 

Now the frosty stars are gone : 
1 have watched them one by one, 
Fading on the shores of Dawn. 
Round and full the glorious sun 
Walks with level step the spray, 
Through this vestibule of Day, 
While the wolves that late did howl 
Slink to dens and coverts foul, 
Guarded by the demon owl, 
Who, last night, with mocking croon. 
Wheeled athwart the chilly moon, 
And with eyes that blankly glared 
On my direful torment stared. 

The lark is flickering in the light; 
Still the nightingale doth sing; — 
All the isle, alive with Spring, 
Lies, a jewel of delight, 
On the blue sea's heaving breast: 
Not a breath from out the west. 
But some balmy smell doth bring 
From the sprouting myrtle buds. 
Or from meadowy vales that lie 
Like a green inverted sky, 
Which the yellow cowslip stars. 
And the bloomy almond woods. 
Cloud-like, cross with roseate bars. 
All is life that I can spy. 
To the farthest sea and sky, 
And my own the only pain 
Within this ring of Tyrrhene main. 

In the gnarled and cloven Pine 
Where that hell-born hag did chain me. 
All this orb of cloudless shine. 
All this youth in Nature's veins 
Tingling with the season's wine, 
With a sharper torment pain me. 
Pansies in soft April rains 
Fill their stalks with honeyed sap 
Drawn from Earth's prolific lap; 
But the sluggish blood she brings 
To the tough Pine's hundred rings, 
Closer locks their cruel hold. 
Closer draws the scaly bark 
Round the crevice, damp and cold, 
Where my useless wings I fold, — 
Sealing me in iron dark. 



By this coarse and alien state 
Is my dainty essence wronged; 
Finer senses, that belonged 
To my freedom, chafe at Fate, 
Till the happier elves I hate. 
Who in moonlight dances turn 
Underneath the palmy fern. 
Or in light and twinkling bands 
Follow on with linked hands 
To the ocean's yellow sands. 

Primrose-eyes each morning ope 
In their cool, deep beds of grass; 
Violets make the airs that pass 
Telltales of their fragrant slope. 
I can see them where they spring 
Never brushed by fairy wing. 
All those corners I can spy 
In the island's solitude. 
Where the dew is never dry, 
Nor the miser bees intrude. 
Cups of rarest hue are there. 
Full of perfumed wine undrained, — 
Mushroom banquets, ne'er profaned, 
Canopied by maiden-hair. 
Pearls I see upon the sands, 
Never touched by other hands. 
And the rainbow bubbles shine 
On the ridged and frothy brine, 
Tenantless of voyager 
Till they burst in vacant air. 
Oh, the songs that sung might be, 
And the mazy dances woven. 
Had that witch ne'er crossed the sea 
And the Pine been never cloven ! 

Many years my direst pain 

Has made the wave-rocked isle complain 

Winds that from the Cyclades 

Came to blow in wanton riot 

Round its shore's enchanted quiet, 

Bore my wailings on the seas: 

Sorrowing birds in autumn went 

Through the world with my lament. 

Still the bitter fate is mine. 

All delight unshared to see, 

Smarting in the cloven Pine, 

While I wait the tardy axe 

Which, perchance, shall set me free 

From the damned witch Sycorax. 



272 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



SONG 


And my kisses shall teach thy lips 




The love that shall fade no more 


Daughter of Egypt, veil thine eyes ! 


Till the sun grows cold, 


I cannot bear their fire;. 


And the stars are old, 


Nor will I touch with sacrifice 


And the leaves of the Judgment 


Those altars of desire. 


Book unfold ! 


For they are flames that shun the day, 




And their unholy light 




Is fed from natures gone astray 


AMERICA 


In passion and in night. 






FROM THE NATIONAL ODE, JULY 4, 1876 


The stars of Beauty and of Sin, 




They burn amid the dark, 


Foreseen in the vision of sages, 


Like beacons that to ruin win 


Foretold when martyrs bled. 


The fascinated bark. 


She was born of the longing of ages. 


Then veil their glow, lest I forswear 


By the truth of the noble dead 


The hopes thou canst not crown, 


And the faith of the living fed ! 


And in the black waves of thy hair 


No blood in her lightest veins 


My struggling manhood drown ! 


Frets at remembered chains. 




Nor shame of bondage has bowed her head. 




In her form and features still 


BEDOUIN SONG 


The unblenching Puritan will, 




Cavalier honor, Huguenot grace, 


From the Desert I come to thee 


The Quaker truth and sweetness, 


On a stallion shod with fire; 


And the strength of the danger-girdled 


And the winds are left behind 


race 


In the speed of my desire. 


Of Holland, blend in a proud completeness. 


Under thy window I stand. 


From the homes of all, where her being 


And the midnight hears my cry: 


began. 


I love thee, I love but thee. 


She took what she gave to Man; 


With a love that shall not die 


Justice, that knew no station. 


Till the sun grows cold, 


Belief, as soul decreed, 


And the stars are old, 


Free air for aspiration, 


And the leaves of the Judgment 


Free force for independent deed ! 


Book unfold ! 


She takes, but to give again, 




As the sea returns the rivers in rain ; 


Look from thy window and see 


And gathers the chosen of her seed 


My passion and my pain; 


From the hunted of every crown and creed. 


I lie on the sands below. 


Her Germany dwells by a gentler Rhine; 


And I faint in thy disdain. 


Her Ireland sees the old sunburst shine; 


Let the night-winds touch thy brow 


Her France pursues some dream divine; 


With the heat of my burning sigh. 


Her Norway keeps his mountain pine; 


And melt thee to hear the vow 


Her Italy waits by the western brine; 


Of a love that shall not die 


And, broad-based under all, 


Till the sun groics cold, 


Is planted England's oaken-hearted mood, 


And the stars are oldy 


As rich in fortitude 


And the leaves of the Judgment 


As e'er went worldward from the island- 


Book unfold ! 


wall ! 




Fused in her candid light. 


My steps are nightly driven, 


To one strong race all races here unite ; 


By the fever in my breast. 


Tongues melt in hers, hereditary foemen 


To hear from thy lattice breathed 


Forget "their sword and slogan, kith and 


The word that shall give me rest. 


clan. 


Open the door of thy heart. 


'T was glory, once, to be a Roman : 


And open thy chamber door, 


She makes it glory, now, to be a man ! 



BAYARD TAYLOR 



273 



THE QUAKER WIDOW 

Thee finds me in the garden, Hannah, — 

come in ! 'T is kind of thee 
To wait until the Friends were gone, who 

came to comfort me. 
The still and quiet company a peace may 

give, indeed, 
But blessed is the single heart that comes 

to us at need. 

Come, sit thee down ! Here is the bench 

where Benjamin would sit 
On First-day afternoons in spring, and 

watch the swallows flit: 
He loved to smell the sprouting box, and 

hear the pleasant bees 
Go humming round the lilacs and through 

the apple-treeso 

I think he loved the spring: not that he 

cared for flowers : most men 
Think such things foolishness, — but we 

were first acquainted then. 
One spring: the next he spoke his mind; 

the third I was his wife, 
And in the spring (it happened so) our 

children entered life. 

He was but seventy-five; I did not think 

to lay him yet 
In Kennett graveyard, where at Monthly 

Meeting first we met. 
The Father's mercy shows in this: 'tis 

better I should be 
Picked out to bear the heavy cross — alone 

in age — than he. 

We 've lived together fifty years : it seems 

but one long day, 
One quiet Sabbath of the heart, till he was 

called away; 
And as we bring from Meeting-time a sweet 

contentment home. 
So, Hannah, I have store of peace for all 

the days to come. 

I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard 

it was to know 
If I had heard the spirit right, that told 

me I should go; 
For father had a deep concern upon his 

mind that day, 
But mother spoke for Benjamin, — she 

knew what best to say. 



Then she was still: they sat awhile: at 

last she spoke again, 
" The Lord incline thee to the right ! " and 

" Thou shalt have him, Jane ! " 
My father said. I cried. Indeed, 't was 

not the least of shocks. 
For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father 

Orthodox. 

I thought of this ten years ago, when 

daughter Ruth we lost: 
Her husband 's of the world, and yet I could 

not see her crossed. 
She wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, 

she hears a hireling priest — 
Ah, dear ! the cross was ours : her life 's 

a happy one, at least. 

Perhaps she '11 wear a plainer dress when 
she 's as old as I, — 

Would thee believe it, Hannah? once I 
felt temptation nigh ! 

My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too sim- 
ple for my taste; 

I wanted lace around the neck, and a rib- 
bon at the waist. 

How strange it seemed to sit with him. 

upon the women's side ! 
I did not dare to lift my eyes: I felt more 

fear than pride, 
Till, " in the presence of the Lord," he said, 

and then there came 
A holy strength upon my heart, and I 

could say the same. 

I used to blush when he came near, but 

then I showed no sign; 
With all the meeting looking on, I held his 

hand in mine. 
It seemed my bashfulness was gone, now I 

was his for life : 
Thee knows the feeling, Hannah, — thee^ 

too, hast been a wife. 

As home we rode, I saw no fields look half 
so green as ours; 

The woods were coming into leaf, the mea- 
dows full of flowers ; 

The neighbors met us in the lane, and every 
face was kind, — 

'T is strange how lively everything comes 
back upon my mind. 



274 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



I see, as plain as thee sits there, the wedding- 
dinner spread: 

At our own table we were guests, with 
father at the head ; 

And Dinah Passmore helped us both, — 
't was she stood up with me, 

And Abner Jones with Benjamin, — and 
now they 'fe gone, all three ! 

It is not right to wish for death; the Lord 

disposes best. 
His Spirit comes to quiet hearts, and fits 

them for His rest; 
And that He halved our little flock was 

merciful, I see: 
For Benjamin has two in heaven, and two 

are left with me. 

Eusebius never cared to farm, — 't was not 

his call, in truth. 
And I must rent the dear old place, and go 

to daughter Ruth. 
Thee '11 say her ways are not like mine, — 

young people now-a-days 
Have fallen sadly ofF, I think, from all the 

good old ways. 

« 

But Ruth is still a Friend at heart; she 
keeps the simple tongue. 

The cheerful, kindly nature we loved when 
she was young; 

And it was brought upon my mind, re- 
membering her, of late, 

That we on dress and outward things per- 
haps lay too much weight. 

I once heard Jesse Kersey say, a spirit 

clothed with grace, 
And pure almost as angels are, may have 

a homely face. 
And dress may be of less account: the 

Lord will look within: 
The soul it is that testifies of righteousness 



Thee mustn't be too hard on Ruth: she 's 

anxious I should go, 
And she will do her duty as a daughter 

should, I know. 
'T is hard to change so late in life, but we 

must l^e resigned: 
The Lord looks down contentedly upon a 

willing' mind. 



THE SONG OF THE CAMP 

" Give us a song ! " the soldiers cried, 

The outer trenches guarding, 
When the heated guns of the camps allied 

Grew weary of bombarding. 

The dark Redan, in silent scoff. 
Lay, grim and threatening, under; 

And the tawny mound of the MalakofE 
No longer belched its thunder. 

There was a pause. A guardsman said, 
" We storm the forts to-morrow; 

Sing while we may, another day 
Will bring enough of sorrow." 

They lay along the battery's side, 

Below the smoking cannon: 
Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, 

And from the banks of Shannon. 

They sang of love, and not of fame; 

Forgot was Britain's glory: 
Each heart recalled a different name, 

But all saug " Annie Laurie." 

Voice after voice caught up the song, 

Until its tender passion 
Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, — 

Their battle-eve confession. 

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, 

But, as the song grew louder, 
Something upon the soldier's cheek 

Washed off the stains of powder. 

Beyond the darkening ocean burned 

The bloody sunset's embers, 
While the Crimean valleys learned 

How English love remembers. 

And once again a fire of hell 

Rained on the Russian quarters, 

With scream of shot, and burst of shell, 
Aiid bellowing of the mortars ! 

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim 
For a singer, dumb and gory; 

And English Mary mourns for him 
Who sang of " Annie Laurie." 

Sleep, soldiers ! ^till in honored rest 
Your truth and valor wearing: 

The bravest are the tenderest, — 
The loving are the daring. 



BAYARD TAYLOR — JULIA CAROLINE RIPLEY DORR 275 



FROM "THE SUNSHINE OF 
THE GODS" 

Ah, moment not to be purchased, 
Not to be won by prayer, 
Not by toil to be conquered, 
Bat given, lest one despair, 
By the Gods in wayward kindness, 
Stay — thou art all too fair ! 
Hour of the dancing measures. 
Sylph of the dew and rainbow. 
Let us clutch thy shining hair ! 

For the mist is blown from the mind, 

For the impotent yearning is over, 

And the wings of the thoughts have power: 

In the warmth and the glow creative 

Existence mellows and ripens, 

And a crowd of swift surprises 

Sweetens the fortunate hour; 

Till a shudder of rapture loosens 

The tears that hang on the eyelids 

Like a breeze-suspended shower, 

With a sense of heavenly freshness 

Blown from beyond the sunshine, 

And the blood, like the sap of the roses, 

Breaks into bud and flower. 

'T is the Sunshine of the Gods, 

The sudden light that quickens, 

Unites the nimble forces, 

And yokes the shy expression 

To the thoughts that waited long, — 

Waiting and wooing vainly : 

But now they meet like lovers 

In the time of willing increase, 

Each wanning each, and giving 

The kiss that maketh strong: 

And the mind feels fairest May-time 

In the marriage of its passions, 

For Thought is one with Speech, 

In the Sunshine of the Gods, 

And Speech is one with Song ! 



Then a rhythmic pulse makes order 

In the troops of wandering fancies: 

Held in soft subordination, 

Lo ! they follow, lead, or fly. 

The fields of their feet are endless. 

And the heights and the deeps are open 

To the glance of the equal sky; 

And the Masters sit no longer 

In inaccessible distance, 

But give to the haughtiest question, 

Smiling, a sweet reply. 

TO M. T. 

Though thy constant love I share, 

Yet its gift is rarer; 
In my youth I thought thee fair: 

Thou art older and fairer ! 

Full of more than young delight 
Now day and night are; 

For the presence, then so bright, 
Is closer, brighter. 

In the haste of youth we miss 

Its best of blisses: 
Sweeter than the stolen kiss 

Are the granted kisses. 

Dearer than the words that hide 

The love abiding. 
Are the words that fondly chide, 

When love needs chiding. 

Higher than the perfect song 
For which loVe longeth, 

Is the tender fear of wrong. 
That never wrongeth. 

She whom youth alone makes dear 
May awhile seem nearer: 

Thou art mine so many a year. 
The older, the dearer ! 



9Iulia Caroline il!iplep SDorr 



THE FALLOW FIELD 

The sun comes up and the sun goes down; 
The night mist shroudeth the sleeping 

town; 
But if it be dark or if it be day, 
If the tempests beat or the breezes play, 



Still here on this upland slope I lie, 
Looking up to the changeful sky. 

Naught am I but a fallow field; 
Never a crop my acres yield. 
Over the wall at my right hand 
Stately and green the corn-blades stand, 



276 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



And I hear at my left the flying feet 

Of the winds that rustle the bending wheat. 

Often while yet the morn is red 

I list for our master's eager tread. 

He smiles at the young corn's towering 

height, 
He knows the wheat is a goodly sight, 
But he glances not at the fallow field 
Whose idle acres no wealth may yield. 

Sometimes vhe shout of the harvesters 
The sleeping pulse of my being stirs, 
And as one in a dream I seem to feel 
The sweep and the rush of the swinging 

steel, 
'Or I catch the sound of the gay refrain 
As they heap their wains with the golden 

grain. 

Yet, my neighbors, be not too proud, 
Though on every tongue your praise is loud. 
Our mother Nature is kind to me. 
And I am beloved by bird and bee, 
And never a child that passes by 
But turns upon me a grateful eye. 

Over my head the skies are blue ; 
I have my share of the rain and dew; 
I bask like you in the summer sun 
When the long bright days pass, one by 

one, 
And calm as yours is my sweet repose 
Wrapped in the warmth of the winter 

snows. 

For little our loving mother cares 
Which the corn or the daisy bears. 
Which is. rich with the ripening wheat. 
Which with the violet's breath is sweet, 
Which is red with the clover bloom. 
Or which for the wild sweet-fern makes 



Useless under the summer sky 

Year after year men say I lie. 

Little they know what strength of mine 

I give to the trailing blackberry vine; 

Little they know how the wild grape grows. 

Or how my life-blood flushes the rose. 

Little they think of the cups I fill 
For the mosses creeping under the hill; 
Little they think of the feast I spread 
For the wild wee creatures that must be fed: 



Squirrel and butterfly, bird and bee. 

And the creeping things that no eye may see. 

Lord of the harvest, thou dost know 
How the summers and winters go. 
Never a ship sails east or west 
Laden with treasures at my behest. 
Yet my being thrills to the voice of God 
When I give my gold to the golden-rod. 



O EARTH ! ART THOU NOT 
WEARY ? 

Earth ! art thou not weary of thy 

graves ? 
Dear, patient mother Earth, upon thy 

breast 
How are they heaped from farthest east to 

west ! 
From the dim north, where the wild storm- 
wind raves 
O'er the cold surge tha,t chills the shore it 

laves. 
To sunlit isles by softest seas caressed, 
Where roses bloom alway and song-birds 

nest. 
How thick they lie — like flecks upon the 

waves ! 
There is no mountain-top so far and high, 
No desert so remote, no vale so deep. 
No spot by man so long untenanted, 
But the pale moon, slow marching up the 

sky, 

Sees over some lone grave the shadows 

creep ! 
O Earth ! art thou not weary of thy dead ? 



WITH A ROSE FROM CONWAY 
CASTLE 

On hoary Conway's battlemented height, 
O poet-heart, I pluck for thee a rose ! 
Through arch and court the sweet wind 

wandering goes; 
Round each high tower the rooks in airy 

flight 
Circle and wheel, all bathed in amber light; 
Low at my feet the winding river flows; 
Valley and town, entranced in deep repose, 
War doth no more appall, nor foes affright. 
Thou knowest how softly on the castle 

walls, 
Where mosses creep, and ivies far and free 



MRS. DORR — JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER 



277 



Fling fortli their pennauts to the freshen- 
ing breeze, 

Like God's own benison this sunshine falls. 

Therefore, O friend, across the sundering 
seas. 

Fair Conway sends this sweet wild rose to 
thee ! 



TWO PATHS 

A PATH across a meadow fair and sweet, 
Where clover-blooms the lithesome grasses 

greet, 
A path worn smooth by his impetuous feet. 



A straight, swift path — and at its end, a 

star 
Gleaming behind the lilac's fragrant bar, 
And her soft eyes, more luminous by far ! 



A path across the meadow fair and sweet. 
Still sweet and fair where blooms and 

grasses meet — 
A path worn smooth by his reluctant feet. 

A long, straight path — and, at its end, a 

gatg 
Behind whose bars she doth in silence wait 
To keep the tryst, if he come soon or late ! 



SJoJjn Jl^inianijSfon ©aimer 



STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY 

Come, stack arms, men; pile on the rails; 

Stir up the camp-fire bright ! 
No growling if the canteen fails: 

We '11 make a roaring night. 
Here Shenandoah brawls along. 
There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong, 
To swell the Brigade's rousing song. 

Of Stonewall Jackson's Way. 

We see him now — the queer slouched hat. 

Cocked o'er his eye askew; 
The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat. 

So calm, so blunt, so true. 
The " Blue-light Elder " knows 'em well: 
Says he, "That's Banks; he's fond of 

shell. 
Lord save his soul ! we '11 give him — ; " 
Well, 

That 's Stonewall Jackson's Way. 

Silence ! Ground arms ! Kneel all ! Caps 
off! 

Old Massa 's going to pray. 
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff: 

Attention ! — it 's his way. 
Appealing from his native sod, 
In forma pauperis to God, 
" Lay bare Thine arm ! Stretch forth Thy 
rod: 

Amen ! " — That 's Stonewall's Way. 

He 's in the saddle now. Fall in ! 
Steady ! the whole brigade. 



Hill 's at the ford, cut off; we '11 win 
His way out, ball and blade. 

What matter if our shoes are worn ? 

What matter if our feet are torn ? 

Quick step ! we 're with him before morn: 
That's Stonewall Jackson's Way. 

The sun's bright lances ront the mists 
Of morning ; and — By George ! 

Here 's Longstreet, struggling in the lists. 
Hemmed in an ugly gorge. 

Pope and his Dutchmen ! — whipped be- 
fore. 

" Bay'uets and grape ! " hear Stonewall 
roar. 

Charge, Stuart ! Pay off Ashby's score. 
In Stonewall Jackson's Way. 

Ah, Maiden ! wait and watch and yearn 
For news of Stonewall's band. 

Ah, Widow ! read, with eyes that burn, 
That ring upon thy hand. 

Ah, Wife ! sew on, pray on, hope on ! 

Thy life shall not be all forlorn. 

The foe had better ne'er been born. 
That gets in Stonewall's Way. 



THE FIGHT AT THE SAN 
JACINTO 

" Now for a brisk and cheerful fight ! " 

Said Harman, big and droll, 
As he coaxed his flint and steel for a light, 

And puffed at his cold clay bowl; 



278 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



" For we are a skulking lot," says he, 

" 0£ land-thieves hereabout, 
And these bold seiiores, two to one, 

Have come to smoke us out." 

Santa Anna and Castillon, 

Almonte brave and gay, 
Portilla red from Goliad, 

And Cos with his smart array. 
Dulces and cigaritos. 

And the light guitar, ting-tum ! 
Sant' Anna courts siesta, 

And Sam Houston taps his drum. 

The buck stands still in the timber — 
" Is it patter of nuts that fall ? " 

The foal of the wild mare whinnies — 
Did he hear the Comanche call ? 

In the brake by the crawling bayou 
The slinking she- wolves howl; 

And the mustang's snort in the river 



Has startled the paddling fowl. 

A soft, low tap, and a muffled tap, 

And a roll not loud nor long — 
We would not break Sant' Anna's nap, 

Nor spoil Almonte's song. 
Saddles and knives and rifles ! 

Lord ! but the men were glad 
When Deaf Smith muttered " Alamo ! " 

And Karnes hissed " Goliad ! " 

The drummer tucked his sticks in his 
belt, 

And the fifer gripped his gun. 
Oh, for one free, wild, Texan yell, 

As we took the slope in a run ! 
But never a shout nor a shot we spent. 

Nor an oath nor a prayer, that day, 
TUl we faced the bravos, eye to eye. 

And then we blazed away. 

Then we knew the rapture of Ben Milam, 

And the glory that Travis made, 
With Bowie's lunge, and Crockett's shot. 

And Fannin's dancing blade; 
And the heart of the fighter, bounding 
free 

In his joy so hot and mad — 
When Millard charged for Alamo, 

Lamar for Goliad. 



Deaf Smith rode straight, with reeking 
spur, 

Into the shock and rout: 
" I ' ve hacked and burned the bayou bridge; 

There 's no sneak's back-way out ! " 
Muzzle or butt for Goliad, 

Pistol and blade and fist ! 
Oh, for the knife that never glanced, 

And the gun that never missed ! 

Dulces and cigaritos. 

Song and the mandolin ! 
That gory swamp is a gruesome grove 

To dance fandangoes in. 
We bridged the bog with the sprawling 
herd 

That fell in that frantic rout; 
We slew and slew till the sun set red. 

And the Texan star flashed out. 



THE MARYLAND BATTALION 

Spruce Macaronis, and pretty to see, 
Tidy and dapper and gallant were we; 
Blooded, fine gentlemen, proper and tall, 
Bold in a fox-hunt and gay at a ball; 
Prancing soldados so martial and bluff, 
Billets for bullets, in scarlet and buff — 
But our cockades were clasped with a 

mother's low prayer. 
And the sweethearts that braided the 

sword-knots were fair. 

There was grunimer of drums humming 

hoarse in the hills. 
And the bugle sang fanfaron down by the 

mills ; 
By Flatbush the bagpipes were droning 

amain, 
And keen cracked the rifles in Martense 's 

lane; 
For the Hessians were flecking the hedges 

with red, 
And the grenadiers' tramp marked the 

roll of the dead. 

Three to one, flank and rear, flashed the 
files of St. George, 

The fierce gleam of their steel as the glow 
of a forge. 

The brutal boom-boom of their swart can- 
noneers 



JOHN W. PALMER — RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 279 



Was sweet music compared with the taunt 

of their cheers — 
For the brunt of their onset, our crippled 

array, 
And the light of God's leading gone out 

in the fray ! 

Oh, the rout on the left and the tug on the 

right ! 
The mad plunge of the charge and the 

wreck of the flight ! 
When the cohorts of Grant held stout 

Stirling at strain, 
And the mongrels of Hesse went tearing 

the slain; 
When at Freeke's Mill the flumes and the 

sluices ran red. 
And the dead choked the dyke and the 

marsh choked the dead ! 

" O Stirling, good Stirling ! how long must 

we wait ? 
Shall the shout of your trumpet unleash us 

too late ? 
Have you never a dash for brave Mordecai 

Gist, 



With his heart in his throat, and his blade 

in his fist ? 
Are we good for no more than to prance in 

a ball, 
When the drums beat the charge and the 

clarions call ? " 

Tralara ! Tralara ! Now praise we the 

Lord 
For the clang of His call and the flash of 

His sword ! 
Tralara ! Tralara ! Now forward to die ; 
For the banner, hurrah ! and for sweet- 
hearts, gpod-bye ! 
" Four hundred wild lads ! " Maybe so. 

I '11 be bound 
'T will be easy to count us, face up, on the 

ground. 
If we hold the road open, tho' Death take 

the toll. 
We '11 be missed on parade when the 

States call the roll — 
When the flags meet in peace and the guns 

are at rest, 
And fair Freedom is singing Sweet Home 

in the West. 



i!lic{)arD l^cnrp it»totitiarti 



THE WITCH'S WHELP 1 

Along the shore the slimy brine-pits yawn. 
Covered with thick green scum ; the billows 

rise. 
And fill them to the brim with clouded 

foam. 
And then subside, and leave the scum 

again. 
The ribbed sand is full of hollow gulfs. 
Where monsters from the waters come and 

lie. 
Great serpents bask at noon along the rocks. 
To me no terror; coil on coil they roll 
Back to their holes before my flying feet. 
The Dragon of the Sea, my mother's god. 
Enormous Setebos, comes here to sleep; 
Him I molest not; when he flaps his wing 
A whirlwind rises, when he swims the 

deep 
It threatens to engulf the trembling isle. 
Sometimes when winds do blow, and 

clouds are dark, 



I seek the blasted wood whose barkless 
trunks 

Are bleached with summer suns ; the creak- 
ing trees 

Stoop down to me, and swing me right and 
left 

Through crashing limbs, but not a jot care I. 

The thunder breaks above, and in their lairs 

The panthers roar; from out the stormy 
clouds 

Whose hearts are fire, sharp lightnings rain 
around 

And split the oaks ; not faster lizards run 

Before the snake up the slant trunks than I, 

Not faster down, sliding with hands and 
feet. 

I stamp upon the ground, and adders rouse, 

Sharp-eyed, with poisonous fangs; beneath 
the leaves 

They couch, or under rocks, and roots of 
trees 

Felled by the winds ; through briery under- 
growth 



1 S>-'e Biographical Note, p. S24. 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Tbey slide with hissing tongues, beneath 

my feet 
To writhe, or in my fingers squeezed to 

death. 
There is a wild and solitary pine. 
Deep iu the meadows; all the island birds 
From far and near fly there, and learn new 

songs. 
Something imprisoned in its wrinkled bark 
Wails for its freedom; when the bigger 

light 
Burns iu mid-heaven, and dew elsewhere is 

dried. 
There it still falls; the quivering leaves 

are tongues, 
And load the air with syllables of woe. 
One day I thrust my spear within a cleft 
No wider than its point, and something 

shrieked. 
And falling cones did pelt me sharp as 

hail : 
I picked the seeds that grew between their 

plates, 
And strung them round my neck with sea- 
mew eggs. 
Hard by are swamps and marshes, reedy 

fens 
Knee-deep in water; monsters wade therein 
Thick-set with plated scales; sometimes in 

troops 
They crawl on slippery banks; sometimes 

they lash , 

The sluggish waves among themselves at 



war. 



Often I heave great rocks from off the 

crags. 
And crush their bones; often I push my 

spear 
Deep in their drowsy eyes, at which they 

howl 
And chase me inland; then I mount their 

humps 
And prick them back again, unwieldy, slow. 
At night the wolves are howling round the 

place, 
And bats sail there athwart the silver light. 
Flapping their wings; by day in hollow 

trees 
They hide, and slink into the gloom of 

dens. 
We live, my mother Sycorax and I, 
In caves with bloated toads and crested 

snakes. 
She can make charms, and philters, and 

brew storms, 



And call the great Sea Dragon from his 

deeps. 
Nothing of this know I, nor care to know. 
Give me the milk of goats in gourds or 

shells. 
The flesh of birds and fish, berries and 

fruit. 
Nor want I more, save all day long to lie, 
And hear, as now, the voices of the sea. 



MELODIES AND CATCHES 

SONGS 

How are songs begot and bred ? 
How do golden measures flow ? 
From the heart, or from the head ? 
Happy Poet, let me know. 

Tell me first how folded flowers 
Bud and bloom in vernal bowers; 
How the south wind shapes its tune, 
The harper, he, of June. 

None may answer, none may know, 
Winds and flowers come and go, 
And the selfsame canons bind 
Nature and the Poet's mind. 

THE SEA 

Through the night, through the night, 

In the saddest unrest. 
Wrapt in white, all in white. 

With her babe on her breast, 
Walks the mother so pale, 
Staring out on the gale, 

Through the night. 

Through the night, through the night. 
Where the sea lifts the wreck, 

Land in sight, close in sight, 
On the surf-flooded deck, 

Stands the father so brave, 

Driving on to his grave, 
Through the night. 

BIRDS 

Birds are singing round my window, 
Tunes the sweetest ever heard. 

And I hang my cage there daily. 
But I never catch a bird. 



RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 



So with thoughts my brain is peopled, 
And they sing there all day long: 

But they will not fold their pinions 
In the little cage of Song ! 

THE SKY 

The sky is a drinking-cup, 
That was overturned of old, 

And it pours in the eyes of men 
Its wine of airy gold. 

We drink that wine all day, 
Till the last drop is drained up. 

And are lighted off to bed 
By the jewels in the cup ! 

THE SHADOW 

There is but one great sorrow, 

All over the wide, wide world; 
But that in turn must come to all — 
The Shadow that moves behind the pall, 
A flag that never is furled. 

Till he in his marching crosses 

The threshold of the door, 
Usurps a place in the inner room. 
Where he broods in the awful hush and 
gloom, 

Till he goes, and comes no more — 

Save this there is no sorrow. 

Whatever we think we feel; 
But when Death comes all 's over: 
'T is a blow that we never recover, 

A wound that never will heal. 

A CATCH 

Once the head is gray. 

And the heart is dead, 
There 's no more to do: 

Make the man a bed 
Six foot under ground. 
There he '11 slumber sound. 

Golden was my hair, 

And my heart did beat 
To the viol's voice 

Like the dancers' feet. 
Not colder now his blood 
Who died before the flood. 

Fair, and fond, and false, 
Mother, wife, and maid, 



Never lived a man 

They have not betrayed. 
None shall 'scape my mirth 
But old Mother Earth. 

Safely housed with her, 

With no company 
But my brother Worm, 

Who will feed on me, 
I shall slumber sound. 
Deep down under ground. 



THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH 

There are gains for all our losses, 
There are balms for all our pain: 
But when youth, the dream, departs, 
It takes something from our hearts, 
-And it never comes again. 

We are stronger, and are better. 

Under manhood's sterner reign: 
Still we feel that something sweet 
Followed youth, with flying feet. 
And will never come again. 

Something beautiful is vanished. 

And we sigh for it in vain: 
We behold it everywhere, 
On the earth, and in the air, 
But it never comes again. 



ORIENTAL SONGS 

THE DIVAN 
A LITTLE maid of Astrakan, 

An idol on a silk divan; 
She sits so still, and never speaks, 

She holds a cup of mine; 
'T is full of wine, and on her cheeks 

Are stains and smears of wine. 

Thou little girl of Astrakan, 
I join thee on the silk divan: 

Tbere is no need to seek the land. 
The rich bazaars where rubies shine; 

For mines are in that little hand. 
And on those little cheeks of thine, 

WINE AND DEW 

You may drink to your leman in gold, 

In a great golden goblet of wine; 



2'62 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



She 's as ripe as the wine, and as bold 
As the glare of the gold: 

But this little lady of mine, 

I will not profane her in wine. 
I go where the garden so still is 

(The moon raining through). 
To pluck the white bowls of the lilies, 

And drink her in dew ! 

THE JAR 

Day and night my thoughts incline 
To tlie blandishments of wine: 
Jars were made to drain, I think, 
Wine, I know, was made to drink. 

When I die, (the day be far !) 
Should the potters make a jar 
Out of this poor clay of mine, 
Let the jar be filled with wine ! 

THE FALCON 

I AM a white falcon, hurrah ! 

My home is the mountains so high; 
But away o'er the lands and the waters. 

Wherever I please, I can fly. 

I wander from city to city, 

I dart from the wave to the cloud. 

And when I am dead I shall slumber 
With my own white wings for a shroud. 

ARAB SONG 

Break thou my heart, ah, break it, 

If such thy pleasure be; 
Thy will is mine, what say I ? 

'T is more than mine to me. 

And if my life offend thee. 

My passion and my pain. 
Take thou my life, ah, take it. 

But spare me thy disdain ! 



THE LOVER 

(japan) 

It is dark and lonesome here, 
Beneath the windy eaves : — 

The cold, cold ground my bed, 
My coverlet dead leaves. 

My only bedfellow 

The rain that wets my sleeves ! 



If it be day, or night, 

I know not, cannot say, 
For I am like a child 

Who has lost his troubled way, 
Till I see the white of the hoar-frost 

Then I know it is day ! 

I touch the silent strings, 
The broken lute complains; 

The sweets of love are gone, 
The bitterness remains. 

Like the memory of summer 
In the time of the long rains ! 

A few more days and nights, 
My tears will cease to flow; 

For I hear a voice within, 
Which tells me I shall go, 

Before the morning hoar-frost 
Becomes the night of snow ! 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 

Not as when some great Captain falls 
In battle, where his Country calls, 
Beyond the struggling lines 
That push his dread designs 

To doom, by some stray ball struck dead: 
Or, in the last charge, at the head 

Of his determined men. 

Who must be victors then. 

Nor as when sink the civic great, 

The safer pillars of the State, 

Whose calm, mature, wise words 
Suppress the need of swords. 

With no such tears as e'er were shed 
Above the noblest of our dead 

Do we to-day deplore 

The Man that is no more. 

Our sorrow hath a wider scope, 
Too strange for fear, too vast for hope, 
A wonder, blind and dumb. 
That waits — what is to come I 

Not more astounded had we been 
If Madness, that dark night, unseen, 
Had in our chambers crept, 
And murdered while we slept ! 



RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 



283 



We woke to find a mourning earth, 
Our Lares shivered on the hearth, 
The roof-tree fallen, all 
That could affright, appall ! 

Such thunderbolts, in other lands. 
Have smitten the rod from royal hands, 
But spared, with us, till now. 
Each laurelled Caesar's brow. 

No Csesar he whom we lament, 
A Man without a precedent. 

Sent, it would seem, to do 

His work, and perish, too. 

Not by the weary cares of State, 

The endless tasks, which will not wait, 

Which, often done in vain, 

Must yet be done again: 

Not in the dcv^:, wild tide of war, 
Whiihrose PjO high, and rolled so far, 

Swp<^jping from sea to sea 

"in awful anarchy: 

Four fateful years of mortal strife. 
Which slowly drained the nation's life, 
(Yet for each drop that ran 
There sprang an armed man !) 

Not then; Wt when, by measures meet. 

By victory, and by defeat. 

By courage, patience, skill. 
The people's fixed " We will I " 

Had pierced, had crushed Rebellion dead. 
Without a hand, without a head. 

At last, when all was well, 

He fell, how he fell ! 

The time, the place, the stealing shape, 
The coward shot, the swift escape, 

The wife — the widow's scream, — 

It is a hideous Dream ! 

A dream ? What means this pageant, 
then? 

These multitudes of solemn men. 
Who speak not when they meet, 
But throng the silent street ? 

The flags half-mast that late so high 
Flaunted at each new victory ? 

(The stars no brightness shed. 

But bloody looks the red !) 



The black festoons that stretch for miles, 
And turn the streets to funeral aisles ? 
(No house too poor to show 
The nation's badge of woe.) 

The cannon's sudden, sullen boom. 
The bells that toll of death and doom. 
The rolling of the drums. 
The dreadful car that comes ? 

Cursed be the hand that fired the shot, 
The frenzied brain that hatched the plot, 
Thy country's Father slain 
By thee, thou worse than Cain ! 

Tyrants have fallen by such as thou, 
And good hath followed — may it now ! 

(God lets bad instruments 

Produce the best events.) 

But he, the man we mourn to-day, 
No tyrant was: so mild a sway 

In one such weight who bore 

Was never known before. 

Cool should he be, of balanced powers, 

The ruler of a race like ours, 

Impatient, headstrong, wild, 
The Man to guide the Child. 

And this he was, who most unfit 
(So hard the sense of God to hit,) 

Did seem to fill his place; 

With such a homely face. 

Such rustic manners, speech uncouth, 
(That somehow blundered out the truth,) 
Untried, untrained to bear 
The more than kingly care. 

Ah ! And his genius put to scorn 
The proudest in the purple born. 
Whose wisdom never grew 
To what, untaught, he knew. 

The People, of whom he was one: 
No gentleman, like Washington, 

(Whose bones, methinks, make room, 
To have him in their tomb !) 

A laboring man, with horny hands. 
Who swung the axe, who tilled his lands, 

Who shrank from nothing new, 

But did as poor men do. 



284 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



One of the People ! Born to be 


The just, the wise, the brave, 


Their curious epitome; 


Attend thee to the grave. 


To share yet rise above 




Their shifting hate and love. 


And you, the soldiers of our wars. 




Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars, 


Common his mind, (it seemed so then,) 


Salute him once again, 


His thoughts the thoughts of other men: 


Your late commander — slain ! 


Plain were his words, and poor, 




But now they will endure ! 


Yes, let your tears indignant fall. 




But leave your muskets on the wall; 


No hasty fool, of stubborn will. 


Your country needs you now 


But prudent, cautious, pliant still; 


Beside the forge — the plough. 


Who since his work was good 




Would do it as he could. 


(When Justice shall unsheathe her brand, — 




If Mercy may not stay her hand. 


Doubting, was not ashamed to doubt, 


Nor would we have it so, — 


And, lacking prescience, went without: 


She must direct the blow.) 


Often appeared to halt, 




And was, of course, at fault; 


And you, amid the PNistor-race, 




Who seem so strangely out nf place, 


Heard all opinions, nothing loath. 


Know ye who coraeth ? He 


And, loving both sides, angered both: 


Who hath riecliiv:- ' y f--" 


Was — not like Justice, blind, 




But watchful, clement, kind. 


Bow while the body passes — nay, 




Fall on your knees, and weep, and pray ? 


No hero this of Roman mould, 


Weep, weep — I would ye might — 


Nor like our stately sires of old: 


Your poor black faces white ! 


Perhaps he was not gr^at. 




But he preserved the State ! 


And, children, you must come in bands, 




With garlands in your little hands. 


honest face, which all men knew ! 


Of blue and white and red. 


tender heart, but known to few ! 


To strew before the dead. 


wonder of the age, 




Cut off by tragic rage ! 


So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes 




The Fallen to his last repose. 


Peace ! Let the long procession come, 


Beneath no mighty dome, 


For hark, the mournful, muffled drum, 


But in his modest home; 


The trumpet's wail afar. 




And see, the awful car ! 


The churchyard where his children rest. 




The quiet spot that suits him best, 


Peace ! Let the sad procession go, 


There shall his grave be made, 


While cannon boom and bells toll slow. 


And there his bones be laid. 


And go, thou sacred car. 




Bearing our woe afar ! 


And there his countrymen shall come, 




With memory proud, with pity dumb, 


Go, darkly borne, from State to State, 


And strangers far and near. 


Whose loyal, sorrowing cities wait 


For many and many a year. 


To honor all they can 




The dust of that good man. 


For many a year and many an age, 




While History on her ample page 


Go, grandly borne, with such a train 


The virtues shall enroll 


As greatest kings might die to gain. 


Of that Paternal Soul. 



RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 



285 



ADSUM 

DECEMBER 23-24, 1 863 

The Angel came by night 

(Such angels still come down), 
And like a winter cloud 

Passed over London town; 
Along its lonesorae streets, 

Where Want had ceased to weep, 
Until it reached a house 

Where a great man lay asleep; 
The man of all his time 

Who knew the most of men. 
The soundest head and heart, 

The sharpest, kindest pen. 
It paused beside his bed. 

And whispered in his ear; 
He never turned his head, 

But answered, " I am here." 

Into the night they went. 

At morning, side by side. 
They gained the sacred Place 

Where the greatest Dead abide. 
Where grand old Homer sits 

In godlike state benign; 
Where broods in endless thought 

The awful Florentine; 
Where sweet Cervantes walks, 

A smile on his grave face; 
Where gossips quaint Montaigne, 

The wisest of his race; 
Where Goethe looks through all 

With that calm eye of his; 
Where — little seen but Light — 

The only Shakespeare is ! 
When the new Spirit came. 

They asked him, drawing near, 
" Art thou become like us ? " 

He answered, " I am here." 



AN OLD SONG REVERSED 

" There are gains for all our losses." 

So I said when I was young. 
If I sang that song again, 
'T would not be with that refrain, 
Which but suits an idle tongue. 

Youth has gone, and hope gone with it, 
Gone the strong desire for fame. 

Laurels are not for the old. 

Take them, lads. Give Senex gold. 
What 's an everlasting name ? 



When my life was in its summer 

One fair woman liked my looks: 
Now that Time has driven his plough 
In deep furrows on my brow, 
I 'm no more in her good books. 

" There are gains for all our losses ? " 

Grave beside the wintry sea. 
Where my child is, and my heart, 
For they would not live apart, 
What has been your gain to me ? 

No, the words I sang were idle, 

And will ever so remain: 
Death, and Age, and vanished Youth 
All declare this bitter truth, 

There 's a loss for every gain ! 



MORS ET VITA 

"Under the roots of the roses, 

Down in the dark, rich mould, 
The dust of my dear one reposes 
Like a spark which night incloses 
When the ashes of day are cold." 

" Under the awful wings 

Which brood over land and sea, 
And whose shadows nor lift nor flee, — 
This is the order of things. 
And hath been from of old: 
First production, 
And last destruction; 
So the pendulum swings. 
While cradles are rocked and bells are 
tolled." 

" Not under the roots of the roses. 

But under the luminous wings 

Of the King of kings 
The soul of my love reposes. 

With the light of morn in her eyes. 
Where the Vision of Life discloses 

Life that sleeps not nor dies." 

" Under or over the skies 
What is it that never dies ? 
Spirit — if such there be — 

Whom no one hath seen nor heard, 
We do not acknowledge thee; 

For, spoken or written word, 
Thou art but a dream, a breath; 
Certain is nothing but Death ! " 



286 FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 


A GAZELLE 


THE FLIGHT OF THE ARROW 


Last night, when my tired eyes were shut 


The life of man 


with sleep, 
I saw the one I love, and heard her speak, — 
Heard, in the listening watches of the night. 
The sweet words melting from her sweeter 

lips: 
But what she said, or seemed to say, to me 


Is an arrow's flight, 
Out of darkness 

Into light. 
And out of light 

Into darkness again; 
Perhaps to pleasure. 


I have forgotten, though, till morning broke, 
I kept repeating her melodious words. 
Long, long may Jami's eyes be blest with 

sleep, 
Like that which last night stole him from 


Perhaps to pain ! 

There must be Something, 

Above, or below; 
Somewhere unseen 


himself, — 


A mighty Bow, 


That perfect rest which, closing his tired lids, 


A Hand that tires not, 


Disclosed the hidden beauty of his love, 
And, filling his soul with music all the while. 


A sleepless Eye 
That sees the arrows 


Imposed f orgetfulness, instructing him 
That silence is more significant of love 


Fly, and fly; 
One who knows 


Than all the burning words in lovers' songs ! 


Why we live — and die. 



Si^argaret 3[unMn ^^rc^sfton 



THE VISION OF THE SNOW 

" She has gone to be with the angels; " 

So they had always said 
To the little questioner asking 

Of his fair, young mother, dead. 

They had never told of the darkness 
Of the sorrowful, silent tomb. 

Nor scared the sensitive spirit 
By linking a thought of gloom 

With the girl-like, beautiful being, 
Who patiently from her breast, 

Had laid him in baby-sweetness. 
To pass to her early rest. 

And when he would lisp — "Where is 
she ? " 

Missing the mother-kiss. 
They answered — " Away in a country 

That is lovelier far than this : — 

" A land all a-shine with beauty 
Too pure for our mortal sight. 

Where the darling ones who have left us 
Are walking in robes of white." 



And with eagerest face he would listen, 

His tremulous lips apart. 
Till the thought of the Beautiful Country 

Haunted his yearning heart. 

One morn, as he gazed from the window, 

A miracle of surprise, 
A marvellous, mystic vision 

Dazzled his wondering eyes. 

Born where the winter's harshness 
Is tempered with spring-tide glow, 

The delicate Southern nursling 
Never had seen the snow. 

And clasping his childish fingers, 
He turned with a flashing brow, 

And cried — " We have got to heaven — 
Show me my mother now ! " 



THE HERO OF THE COMMUNE 

" GAEgoN ! You — you 

Snared along with this cursed crew ? 
(Only a child, and yet so bold, 
Scarcely as much as ten years old !) 



MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON 



287 



Do you hear ? do you know 
Why the geudarmes put you there, in the 

row, 
You, with those Commune wretches tall, 

With your face to the wall ? '' 

" Know ? To be sure I know ! why not ? 

We 're here to be shot; 
And there, by the pillar 's the very spot, 
Fighting for France, my father fell: 

Ah, well ! 
That 's just the way I would choose to fall. 

With my back to the wall ! " 

(" Sacr^ ! Fair, open fight, I say, 
Is something right gallant in its way, 
And fine for warming the blood ; but who 
Wants wolfish work like this to do ? 
Bah ! 't is a butcher's business !) How ? 
(The boy is beckoning to ine now: 
I knew that his poor child's heart would 
fail, 

. . . Yet his cheek 's not pale:) 
Quick ! say your say, for don't you see. 
When the church-clock yonder tolls out 
Three, 

You 're all to be shot ? 

. . . Whatf 
' Excuse you one moment ? ' O, ho, ho ! 
Do you think to fool a gendarme so ? " 

" But, sir, here 's a watch that a friend, 

one day 
(My father's friend), just over the way. 
Lent me ; and if you '11 let me free, 

— It still lacks seven minutes of Three, — 
I '11 come, on the word of a soldier's son. 
Straight back into line, when my errand 's 

done." 

" Ha, ha ! No doubt of it ! Off ! Be- 
gone ! 
(Now, good Saint Denis, speed him on ! 
The work will be easier since he 's saved ; 
For I hardly see how I could have braved 
The ardor of that innocent eye. 

As he stood and heard, 

While I gave the word. 
Dooming him like a dog to die.") 

" In time ! Well, thanks, that my desire 
Was granted ; and now, I am ready : — 
Fire! 
One word ! — that 's all ! 

— You '11 let me turn my back to the wall ? " 



" Parbleu ! Come out of the line, I say. 
Come out ! (who said that his name was 

Ney ?) 
Ha! France will hear of him yet one 

day ! " 



A GRAVE IN HOLLYWOOD CEM- 
ETERY, RICHMOND 

(J. R. T.) 

I READ the marble-lettered name, 

And half in bitterness I said: 
" As Dante from Ravenna came. 

Our poet came from exile — dead." 
And yet, had it been asked of him 

Where he would rather lay his head, 
This spot he would have chosen. Dim 
The city's hum drifts o'er his grave, 
And green above the hollies wave 
Their jagged leaves, as when a boy. 

On blissful summer afternoons, 

He came to sing the birds his runes, 
And tell the river of his joy. 

Who dreams that in his wanderings wide. 
By stern misfortunes tossed and 

driven. 
His soul's electric strands were riven 
From home and country ? Let betide 
What might, what would, his boast, his 

pride. 
Was in his stricken mother-land. 

That could but bless and bid him go, 
Because no crust was in her hand 

To stay her children's need. We know 
The mystic cable sank too deep 

For surface storm or stress to strain, 
Or from his answering heart to keep 
The spark from flashing back again ! 

Think of the thousand mellow rhymes, 

The pure idyllic passion-flowers. 
Wherewith, in far gone, happier times, 

He garlanded this South of ours. 
Provengal-like, he wandered long. 

And sang at many a stranger's board. 
Yet 't was Virginia's name that poured 
The tenderest pathos through his song. 
We owe the Poet praise and tears. 

Whose ringing ballad sends the brave, 
Bold Stuart riding down the years — 
What have we given him ? Just a 
grave ! 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



^tt^^^m €oHin^ fomt 



MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME, 
GOOD-NIGHT 

The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky 
home; 
'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay; 
The corn-top 's ripe, and the meadow 's in 
the bloom, 
While the birds make music all the day. 
The young folks roll on the little cabin 
floor, 
All merry, all happy and bright; 
By-'n'-by hard times comes a-knocking at 
the door: — 
Then my old Kentucky home, good- 
night ! 

Weep no more, my lady, 

O, weep no more to-day ! 
We will sing one song for the old Ken- 
tucky home, 

For the old Kentucky home, far 
away. 

They hunt no more for the possum and the 
coon, 
On the meadow, the hill, and the shore; 
They sing no more by the glimmer of the 
moon. 
On the bench by the old cabin door. 
The day goes by like a shadow o'er the 
heart, 
With sorrow, where all was delight; 
The time has come when the darkeys have 
to part: — 
Then my old Kentucky home, good- 
night ! 

The head must bow, and the back will have 
to bend, 
Wherever the darkey may go; 
A few more days, and the trouble all will end, 
In the field where the sugar-canes grow. 
A few more days for to tote the weary 
load, — 
No matter, 't will never be light; 
A few more days till we totter on the 
road : — 
Then my old Kentucky home, good- 
night ! 



Weep no more, my lady, 

O, weep no more to-day ! 
We will sing one song for the old Ken- 
tucky home, 

For the old Kentucky home, far 
away. 



OLD FOLKS AT HOME 

Way down upon de Swanee Ribber, 

Far, far away, 
Dere 's wha my heart is turning ebber, 

Dere 's wha de old folks stay. 
All up and down de whole creation 

Sadly I roam. 
Still longing for de old plantation, 

And for de old folks at home. 

All de world am sad and dreary, 

Ebery where I roam; 
Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows 
weary, 

Far from de old folks at home ! 

All round de little farm I wandered 

When I was young. 
Den many happy days I squandered, 

Many de songs I sung. 
When I was playing wid my brudder 

Happy was I; 
Oh, take me to my kind old mudder ! 

Dere let me live and die. 

One little hut among de bushes, 

One dat I love, 
Still sadly to my memory rushes. 

No matter where I rove. 
When will I see de bees a-humming 

All round de comb ? 
When will I hear de banjo tumming, 

Down in my good old home ? 

All de world am sad and dreary, 

Eberywhere I roam. 
Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows 
weary. 

Far from de old folks at home ! 



STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER — ROSE TERRY COOjv. 



293 



MASSA'S IN DE COLD GROUND 

Round de meadows am a-ringing 

De darkeys' mournful song, 
While de mocking-bird am singing, 

Happy as de day am long. 
Where de ivy am a-creeping, 

O'er de grassy mound, 
Dere old massa am a-sleeping, 

Sleeping in de cold, cold ground. 

Down in de corn-field 

Hear dat mournful sound: 

All de darkeys am a-weeping, — 
Massa 's in de cold, cold ground. 

When de autumn leaves were falling. 

When de days were cold, 
'T was hard to hear old massa calling, 

Cayse he was so weak and old. 



Now de orange tree am blooming 

On de sandy shore. 
Now de summer days am coming, — 

Massa nebber calls no more. 

Massa make de darkeys love him, 

Cayse he was so kind; 
Now dey sadly weep above him. 

Mourning cayse he leave dem behind. 
I cannot work before to-morrow, 

Cayse de tear-drop flow; 
I try to drive away my sorrow, 

Pickin' on de old banjo. 

Down in de corn-field 

Hear dat mournful sound: 

All de darkeys am a-weeping, — 
Massa 's in de cold, cold ground. 



iHo^e Ceirrp €ooht 



SEGOVIA AND MADRID 

It sings to me in sunshine, 
It whispers all day long, 
My heartache like an echo 
Repeats the wistful song: 
Only a quaint old love-lilt. 
Wherein my life is hid, — 
" My body is in Segovia, 
But my soul is in Madrid ! " 

I dream, and wake, and wonder, 
For dream and day are one. 
Alight with vanished faces, 
And days forever done. 
They smile and shine around me 
As long ago they did; 
For my body is in Segovia, 
But my soul is in Madrid ! 

Through inland hills and forests 
I hear the ocean breeze. 
The creak of straining cordage. 
The rush of mighty seas. 
The lift of angry billows 
Through which a swift keel slid; 
For my body is in Segovia, 
But my soul is in Madrid. 



O fair-haired little darlings 
Who bore my heart away ! 
A wide and woful ocean 
Between us roars to-day; 
Yet am I close beside you 
Though time and space forbid; 
My body is in Segovia, 
But my soul is in Madrid. 

If I were once in heaven. 
There would be no more sea; 
My heart would cease to wander. 
My sorrows cease to be; 
My sad eyes sleep forever, 
In dust and daisies hid, 
And my body leave Segovia. 
— Would my soul forget Madrid ? 



ARACHNE 

I WATCH her in the corner there, 
As, restless, bold, and unafraid, 
She slips and floats along the air 
Till all her subtile house is made. 

Her home, her bed, her daily food, 
All from that hidden store she draws; 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



She fashions it and knows it good, 


Looks he behind them ? 


By instinct's strong and sacred laws. 


Ah ! have a care ! 




"Here is a finer." 


No tenuous threads to weave her nest, 


The chamber is there ! 


She seeks and gathers there or here; 




But spins it from her faithful breast, 


Fair spreads the banquet, 


Renewing still, till leaves are sere. 


Rich the array; 




See the bright torches 


Then, worn with toil, and tired of life, 


Mimicking day; 


In vain her shining traps are set. 


When harp and viol 


Her frost hath hushed the insect strife 


Thrill the soft air, 


And gilded flies her charm forget. 


Comes a light whisper; 




The chamber is there ! 


But swinging in the snares she spun. 




She sways to every wintry wind : 


Marble and painting, 


Her joy, her toil, her errand done, 


Jasper and gold. 


Her corse the sport of storms unkind. 


Purple from Tyrus, 




Fold upon fold. 


Poor sister of the spinster clan ! 


Blossoms and jewels, 


I too from out my store within 


Thy palace prepare; 


My daily life and living plan. 


Pale grows the monarch; 


My home, my rest, my pleasure spin. 


The chamber is there ! 


I know thy heart when heartless hands 


Once it was open 


Sweep all that hard-earned web away: 


As shore to the sea; 


Destroy its pearled and glittering bands, 


White were the turrets. 


And leave thee homeless by the way. 


Goodly to see; 




All through the casements 


I know thy peace when all is done. 


Flowed the sweet air; 


Each anchored thread, each tiny knot. 


Now it is darkness ; 


Soft shining in the autumn sun; 


The chamber is there ! 


A sheltered, silent, tranquil lot. 






Silence and horror 


I know what thou hast never known, — 


Brood on the walls; 


Sad presage to a soul allowed, — 


Through every crevice 


That not for life I spin, alone. 


A little voice calls : 


But day by day I spin my shroud. 


" Quicken, mad footsteps, 




On pavement and stair; 




Look not behind thee, 




The chamber is there ! " 


BLUEBEARD'S CLOSET 






Out of the gateway. 


Fasten the chamber ! 


Through the wide World, 


Hide the red key; 


Into the tempest 


Cover the portal. 


Beaten and hurled, 


That eyes may not see. 


Vain is thy wandering, 


Get thee to market. 


Sure thy despair, 


To wedding and prayer; 


Flying or staying, 


Labor or revel, 


The chamber is there ! 


The chamber is there ! 




In comes a stranger — 


LISE 


•' Thy pictures how fine. 




Titian or Guido, 


If I were a cloud in heaven, 


Whose is the sign ? " 


I would hang over thee; 



ROSE TERRY COOKE 



If I were a star of even, 

I 'd rise and set for thee ; 
For love, life, light, were given 

Thy ministers to be. 

If I weve a wind's low laughter, 

I 'd kiss thy hair; 
Or a sunbeam coming after, 

Lie on thy forehead fair; 
For the world and its wide hereafter 

Have nought with thee to compare. 

If I were a fountain leaping. 

Thy name should be 
The burden of my sweet weeping; 

If I were a bee. 
My honeyed treasures keeping, 

'T were all for thee ! 

There 's never a tided ocean 

Without a shore ; 
Nor a leaf whose downward motion 

No dews deplore; 
And I dream that my devotion 

May move thee to sigh once more. 



DONE FOR 

A WEEK ago to-day, when red-haired Sally 

Down to the sugar-camp came to see me, 
I saw her checked frock coming down the 
valley. 

Far as anybody's eyes could see. 
Now I sit before the camp-fire. 

And I can't see the pine-knots blaze. 
Nor Sally's pretty face a-shining, 

Though 1 hear the good words she says. 

A week ago to-night I was tired and lonely, 

Sally was gone back to Mason's fort. 
And the boys by the sugar-kettles left me 
only;. 

They were hunting coons for sport. 
By there snaked a painted Pawnee, 

I was asleep before the fire; 
He creased my two eyes with his hatchet, 

And scalped me to his heart's desire. 

There they found me on the dry tussocks 

lying, 
Bloody and cold as a live man could be; 
A hoot-owl on the branches overhead was 

crying. 
Crying murder to the red Pawnee. 



293 

They brought me to the camp-fire, 

They washed me in the sweet white 
spring; 

But my eyes were full of flashes. 
And all night my ears would sing. 

I thought I was a hunter on the prairie, 

But they saved me for an old blind dog ; 
When the hunting-grounds are cool and 
airy, 

I shall lie here like a helpless log. 
I can't ride the little wiry pony, 

That scrambles over hills high and low; 
I can't set my traps for the cony. 

Or bring down the black buffalo. 

I 'm no better than a rusty, bursted rifle, 

And I don't see signs of any other trail; 
Here by the camp-fire blaze I lie and stifle, 

And hear Jim fill the kettles with his pail. 
It 's no use groaning. I like Sally, 

But a Digger squaw would n't have me ! 
I wish they had n't found me in the valley, — 

It 's twice dead not to see ! 



IN VAIN 

Put every tiny robe away ! 
The stitches all were set with tears, 
Slow, tender drops of joys ; to-day 
Their rain would wither hopes or fears: 
Bitter enough to daunt the moth 
That longs to fret this dainty cloth. 

The filmy lace, the ribbons blue. 
The tracery deft of flower and leaf. 
The fairy shapes that bloomed and grew 
Through happy moments all too brief. 
The warm, soft wraps. O God ! how cold 
It must be in that wintry mould ! 

Fold carefully the broidered wool: 
Its silken wreaths will ne'er grow old. 
And lay the linen soft and cool 
Above it gently, fold on fold. 
So lie the snows on that soft breast. 
Where mortal garb will never rest. 

How many days in dreamed delight. 
With listless fingers, working slow, 
I fashioned them from morn till night 
And smiled to see them slowly grow. 
I thought the task too late begun; 
Alas ! how soon it all was done ! 



fIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Go lock them in a cedar chest, 
And never bring me back the key ! 
Will hiding lay this ghost to rest, 
Or the turned lock give peace to me ? 
No matter ! — only that I dread 
Lest other eyes behold my dead. 



I would have laid them in that grave 
To perish too, like any weed; 
But legends tell that they who save 
Such garments, ne'er the like will need: 
But give or burn them, — need will be ; 
I want but one such memory ! 



f rancid <Sf^ik^ fincl) 



THE BLUE AND THE GRAY 

By the flow of the inland river, 

Whence the fleets of iron have fled, 
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver. 
Asleep are the ranks of the dead: 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment-day; 
Under the one, the Blue, 
Under the other, the Gray. 

These in the robings of glory, 

Those in the gloom of defeat, 
All with the battle-blood gory. 
In the dusk of eternity meet: 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment-day; 
Under the laurel, the Blue, 
Under the willow, the Gray. 

From the silence of sorrowful hours 

The desolate mourners go, 
Lovingly laden with flowers 

Alike for the friend and the foe: 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment-day; 
Under the roses, the Blue, 
Under the lilies, the Gray. 

So with an equal splendor. 

The morning sun-rays fall. 
With a touch impartially tender, 

On the blossoms blooming for all: 



Under the sod and the dew. 
Waiting the judgment-day; 

Broidered with gold, the Blue, 
Mellowed with gold, the Gray. 

So, when the summer calleth, - 
On forest and field of grain, 
With an equal murmur falleth 
The cooling drip of the rain: 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment- day; 
Wet with the rain, the Blue, 
Wet with the rain, the Gray. 

Sadly, but not with upbraiding, 
The generous deed was done. 
In the storm of the years that are fading 
No braver battle was won: 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment-day; 
Under the blossoms, the Blue, 
Under the garlands, the Gray. 

No more shall the war cry sever, 

Or the winding rivers be red; 
They banish our anger forever 

When they laurel the graves of ou 
dead ! 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment-day; 
Love and tears for the Blue, 
Tears and love for the Gray. 



5Io][)n €otDn^enti CrotDbritige 



THE VAGABONDS 

W"e are two travellers, Roger and I. 
Roger 's my dog. — Come here, 
scamp ! 



you 



Jump for the gentleman, — mind your eye ! 

Over the table, — look out for the lamp ! 
The rogue is growing a little old; 

Five years we 've tramped through wind 
and weather, 



JOHN TOWN SEND TROWBRIDGE 



293 



And slept out-doors when nights were cold, 
And ate and drank — and starved — to- 
gether. 

We 've learned what comfort is, I tell you ! 

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosiu, 
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow! 

The paw he holds up there 's been frozen), 
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle 

(This out-door business is bad for strings), 
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the 
griddle. 

And Roger and I set up for kings ! 

No, thank ye, Sir, — I never drink; 

Roger and I are exceedingly moral, — 
Are n't we, Roger ? — See him wink ! — 

Well, something hot, then, — we won't 
quarrel. 
He 's thirsty, too, — see him nod his head ? 

What a pity. Sir, that dogs can't talk ! 
He understands every word that 's said, — 

And he knows good milk from water- 
and-chalk. 

The truth is, Sir, now I reflect, 

I 've been so sadly given to grog, 
I wonder I 've not lost the respect 

(Here 's to you. Sir !) even of my dog. 
But he sticks by, through thick and thin; 

And this old coat, with its empty pock- 
ets. 
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin, 

He '11 follow while he has eyes in his 
sockets. 

There is n't another creature living 

Would do it, and prove, through every 
disaster. 
So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving. 

To such a miserable, thankless master ! 
No, Sir ! — see him wag his tail and grin ! 

By George ! it makes my old eyes water ! 
That is, there 's something in this gin 

That chokes a fellow. But no matter ! 

We '11 have some music, if you 're willing. 
And Roger (hem ! what a plague a 
cough is. Sir !) 
Shall march a little — Start, you villain ! 
Paws up ! Eyes front ! Salute your 
officer ! 
'Bout face ! Attention ! Take your rifle ! 
(Some dogs have arms, you see !) Now 
hold your 



Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle, 
To aid a poor old patriot soldier ! 

March ! Halt ! Now show how the rebel 
shakes 
When he stands up to hear his sentence. 
Now tell us how many drams it takes 
To honor a jolly new acquaintance. 
Five yelps, — that 's five ; he 's mighty 
knowing ! 
The night 's before us, fill the glasses ! — 
Quick, Sir ! I 'm ill, — my brain is go- 
ing ! — 
Some brandy, — thank you, — there ! — 
it passes ! 

Why not reform ? That 's easily said; 
But I 've gone through such wretched 
treatment. 
Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread. 
And scarce remembering what meat 
meant, 
That my poor stomach 's past reform ; 
And there are times when, mad with 
thinking, 
I 'd sell out heaven for something warm 
To prop a horrible inward sinking. 

Is there a way to forget to think ? 

At your age. Sir, home, fortune, friends, 
A dear girl's love, — but I took to drink, — 
The same old story; you know how it 
ends. 
If you could have seen these classic fea- 
tures, , — 
You need n't laugh. Sir ; they were not 
then 
Such a burning libel on God's creatures: 
I was one of your handsome men ! 

If you had seen Tier, so fair and young. 

Whose head was happy on this breast ! 
If you could have heard the songs I sung 

When the wine went round, you would n't 
have guessed 
That ever I, Sir, should be straying 

From door to door, with fiddle and dog. 
Ragged and penniless, and playing 

To you to-night for a glass of grog ! 

She 's married since, — a parson's wife : 
'T was better for her that we should 
part, — 

Better the soberest, prosiest life 

Than a blasted home and a broken heart. 



294 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



I have seen her ? Once : I was weak and 
spent 
■On the dusty road: a carriage stopped: 
But little she dreamed, as on she went, 
Who kissed the coin that her fingers 
dropped ! 

You 've set me talking, Sir; I 'm sorry; 

It makes me wild to think of the change ! 
What do you care for a beggar's story ? 

Is it amusing ? you find it strange ? 
I had a mother so proud of me ! 

'T was well she died before Do you 

know 
If the happy spirits in heaven can see 

The ruin and wretchedness here below ? 

Another glass, and strong, to deaden 

This pain; then Roger and I will start. 
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, 

Aching thing in place of a heart ? 
He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if 
he could, 

No doubt remembering things that were, — 
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, 

And himself a sober, respectable cur. 

I 'm better now; that glass was warming. — 

You rascal ! limber your lazy feet ! 
We must be fiddling and performing 
For supper and bed, or starve in the 
street. — 
Not a very gay life to lead, you think ? 
But soon we shall go where lodgings are 
free. 
And the sleepers need neither victuals nor 
drink : — 
The sooner, the better for Roger and me ! 

MIDWINTER 

The speckled sky is dim with snow, 
The light flakes falter and fall slow; 
Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale, 
Silently drops a silvery veil; 
And all the valley is shut in 
By flickering curtains gray and thin. 

But cheerily the chickadee 
Singeth to me on fence and tree; 
The snow sails round him as he sings, 
White as the down of angels' wings. 

I watch the slow flakes as they fall 
On bank and brier and broken wall; 



Over the orchard, waste and brown. 
All noiselessly they settle down. 
Tipping the apple-boughs, and each 
Light quivering twig of plum and peach. 

On turf and curb and bower-roof 
The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof; 
It paves with pearl the garden- walk; 
And lovingly round tattered stalk 
And shivering stem its magic weaves 
A mantle fair as lily-leaves. 

The hooded beehive, small and low, 
Stands like a maiden in the snow; 
And the old door-slab is half hid 
Under an alabaster lid. 

All day it snows: the sheeted post 
Gleams in the dimness like a ghost; 
All day the blasted oak has stood 
A muffled wizard of the wood; 
Garland and airy cap adorn 
The sumach and the wayside thorn. 
And clustering spangles lodge and shine 
In the dark tresses of the pine. 

The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old, 
Shrinks like a beggar in the cold; 
In surplice white the cedar stands, 
And blesses him with priestly hands. 

Still cheerily the chickadee 
Singeth to me on fence and tree: 
But in my inmost ear is heard 
The music of a holier bird; 
And heavenly thoughts as soft and white 
As snow-flakes, on my soul alight, 
Clothing with love my lonely heart. 
Healing with peace each bruised part, 
Till all my being seems to be 
Transfigured by their purity. 



MIDSUMMER 

Around this lovely valley rise 
The purple hills of Paradise. 

O, softly on yon banks of haze. 
Her rosy face the Summer lays ! 

Becalmed along the azure sky, 
The argosies of cloudland lie. 
Whose shores, with many a shining rift, 
Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift. 



JOHN T. TROWBRIDGE — JEREMIAH EAMES RANKIN 295 



Through all the long midsuramer-day 
The meadow-sides are sweet with hay. 
I seek the coolest sheltered seat, 
Just where the field and forest meet, — 
Where grow the pine-trees tall and bland, 
The ancient oaks austere and grand, 
And fringy roots and pebbles fret 
The ripples of the rivulet. 

I watch the mowers, as they go 

Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved 

row. 
With even stroke their scythes they swing. 
In tune their merry whetstones ring. 
Behind the nimble youngsters run. 
And toss the thick swaths in the sun. 
The cattle graze, while, warm and still, 
Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill. 
And bright, where summer breezes break, 
The green wheat crinkles like a lake. 

The butterfly and bumblebee 

Come to the pleasant woods with me; 



Quickly before me runs the quail. 
Her chickens skulk behind the rail; 
High up the lone wood-pigeon sits, 
And the woodpecker pecks and flits. 
Sweet woodland music sinks and swells, 
The brooklet rings its tinkling bells, 
The swarming insects drone and hum, 
The partridge beats its throbbing drum. 
The squirrel leaps among the boughs. 
And chatters in his leafy house. 
The oriole flashes by; and, look ! 
Into the mirror of the brook, 
Where the vain bluebird trims his coat, 
Two tiny feathers fall and float. 

As silently, as tenderly. 
The down of peace descends on me. 
O, this is peace ! I have no need 
Of friend to talk, of book to read: 
A dear Companion here abides ; 
Close to my thrilling heart He hides; 
The holy silence is His Voice: 
I lie and listen, and rejoice. 



9[ercmtalJ <iKamc^ iHanfein 



THE WORD OF GOD TO LEYDEN 
CAME 

The word of God to Leyden came, 

Dutch town by Zuyder-Zee ; 
Rise up, my children of no name. 

My kings and priests to be. 
There is an empire in the JVest, 

Which I will soon unfold; 
A thousand harvests in her breast. 

Rocks ribbed with iron and gold. 

Rise up, my children, time is ripe ! 

Old things are passed away. 
Bishops and kings from earth I wipe: 

Too long they 've had their day. 
A little ship have I prepared 

To bear you o'er the seas ; 
And in your souls, my will declared. 

Shall grow by slow degrees. 

Beneath my throne the martyrs cry: 
I hear their voice, How long ? 

It mingles with their praises high. 
And with their victor song. 

The thing they longed and waited for, 
But died without the sight; 



So, this shall be ! I wrong abhor, 
The world I '11 now set right. 

Leave, then, the hammer and the loom, 

You 've other work to do ; 
For Freedom's commonwealth there 's room, 

And you shall build it too. 
I 'm tired of bishops and their pride, 

I 'm tired of kings as well ; 
Henceforth I take the people's side, 

And with the people dwell. 

Tear off the mitre from the priest, 

And from the king, his crown; 
Let all my captives be released; 

Lift up, whom men cast down. 
Their pastors let the people choose, 

And choose their rulers too; 
Whom they select, I '11 not refuse. 

But bless the work they do. 

The Pilgrims rose, at this God's word, 

And sailed the wintry seas: 
With their own flesh nor blood conferred, 

Nor thought of wealth or ease. 
They left the towers of Leyden town, 

They left the Zuyder-Zee; 



296 FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 


And where they cast their anchor down, 
Eose Freedom's realm to be. 

THE BABIEi 


Her een sae like her mither's een, 
Twa gentle, liquid things; 

Her face is like an angel's face: 
We 're glad she has nae wings. 


Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes, 
Nae stockin' on her feet; 

Her supple ankles white as snaw, 
Or early blossoms sweet. 


She is the buddin' of our luve, 

A giftie God gied us: 
We maun na luve the gift owre weel; 

'T wad be nae blessin' thus. 


Her simple dress 0' sprinkled pink, 
Her double, dimplit chin, 

Her puckered lips, and baumy mou', 
With na ane tooth within. 


We still maun lo'e the Giver mair, 
An' see Him in the given; 

An' sae she '11 lead us up to Him, 
Our babie straight frae Heaven. 



atitiitional ^electtonis 

(VARIOUS POEMS BELONGING TO THIS DIVISION) 



TWILIGHT AT SEA 

The twilight hours like birds flew by. 

As lightly and as free; 
Ten thousand stars were in the sky, 

Ten thousand on the sea; 
For every wave with dimpled face. 

That leaped upon the air. 
Had caught a star in its embrace. 

And held it trembling there. 

Amelia Coppuck Welby 

WHY THUS LONGING? 

Why thus longing, thus for ever sighing, 
For the far-off, unattained, and dim, 

While the beautiful, all round thee lying, 
Offers up its low, perpetual hymn ? 

Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching, 
All thy restless yearnings it would still; 
Leaf and flower and laden bee are preach- 
ing 
Thine own sphere, though humble, first 
to fill. 

Poor Indeed thou must be, if around thee 
Thou no ray of light and joy canst 
throw — 



If no silken cord of love hath bound thee 
To some little world through weal and 
woe; 

If no dear eyes thy fond love can bright- 
en — 

No fond voices answer to thine own ; 
If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten. 

By daily sympathy and gentle tone. 

Not by deeds that win the crowd's ap- 
plauses, 
Not by works that give thee world-re- 
nown, 
Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses. 
Canst thou win and wear the immortal 



DaUy struggling, though unloved and 
lonely, 

Every day a rich reward will give; 
Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only. 

And truly loving, thou canst truly live. 

Dost thou revel in the rosy morning. 
When all nature hails the lord of light, 

And his smile, the mountain-tops adorning, 
Robes yon fragrant fields in radiance 
bright ? 



1 See Biographical Note, p. 817. 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



297 



Other hands may grasp the field and forest, 
Proud proprietors in pomp may shine; 

But with fervent love if thou adorest, 
Thou art wealthier — all the world is 
thine. 

Yet if through earth's wide domains thou 
rovest, 
Sighing that they are not thine alone, 
Not those fair fields, but thyself, thou lov- 
est. 
And their beauty and thy wealth are 
gone. 

Nature wears the color of the spirit; 

Sweetly to her worshipper she sings; 
All the glow, the grace she doth inherit, 
Kound her trusting child she fondly 
flings. 

Harriet Winslow Sewall 

BALDER'S WIFE 

Her casement like a watchful eye 

From the face of the wall looks down, 
Lashed round with ivy vines so dry, 

And vrith ivy leaves so brown. 
Her golden head in her lily hand 

Like a star in the spray o' the sea, 
And wearily rocking to and fro, 
She sings so sweet and she sings so low 

To the little babe on her knee. 
But let her sing what tune she may. 
Never so light and never so gay, 
It slips and slides and dies away 

To the moan of the willow water. 

Like some bright honey-hearted rose 

That the wild wind rudely mocks, 
She blooms from the dawn to the day's 
sweet close 

Hemmed in with a world of rocks. 
The livelong night she doth not stir, 

But keeps at her casement lorn. 
And the skirts of the darkness shine vnth her 

As they shine with the light o' the morn. 
And all who pass may hear her lay. 
But let it be what tune it may. 
It slips and slides and dies away 

To the moan of the willow water. 

And there, within that one-eyed tower, 
Lashed round with the ivy brown, 

She droops like some unpitied flower 
That the rain-fall washes down: 



The damp o' the dew in her golden hair, 

Her cheek like the spray o' the sea. 
And wearily rocking to and fro. 
She sings so sweet and she sings so low 

To the little babe on her knee. 
But let her sing what tune she may, 
Never so glad and never so gay. 
It slips and slides and dies away 
To the moan of the willow water. 

Alice Gary 



NEARER HOME 

One sweetly solemn thought 
Comes to me o'er and o'er; 

I am nearer home to-day 

Than I ever have been before ; 

Nearer my Father's house. 
Where the many mansions be; 

Nearer the great white throne, 
Nearer the crystal sea; 

Nearer the bound of life. 

Where we lay our burdens down; 
Nearer leaving the cross, 

Nearer gaining the crown J 

But lying darkly between, 

Winding down through the night, 
Is the silent, unknown stream, 

That leads at last to the light. 

Closer and closer my steps 
Come to the dread abysm: 

Closer Death to my lips 
Presses the awful chrism. 

Oh, if my mortal feet 

Have almost gained the brink; 
If it be I am nearer home 

Even to-day than I think; 

Father, perfect my trust; 

Let my spirit feel in death, 
That her feet are firmly set 

On the rock of a living faith ! 

Phoebe Car7 



THE MASTER'S INVITATION 

Deak Lord, thy table is outspread; 
What other could such feast afford ? 



298 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



And thou art waiting at the head, 

But I am all unworthy, Lord; 

Yet do I hear thee say, — 

(Was ever love so free ?) 
Come hither, son, to-day 
And sit and sup with me. 

master ! I am full of doubt, 

My heart with sin and fear defiled; 
Come thou, and cast the tempter out. 
And make me as a little child ; 
Methinks I hear thee say, — 
Come thou, at once, and see 
What love can take away, 
And what confer on thee. 

My Lord ! to thee I fain would go, 

Yet tarry now I know not why; 
Speak, if to tell what well I know, 
That none are half so vile as I. 
What do I hear thee say ? — 
Look, trembling one, and see 
These tokens, which to-day 
Tell what I did for thee. 

Nay, Lord ! I could not here forget 

What thou didst for my ransom give; 
The garden prayer, the bloody sweat. 
All this and more, that I might live. 
I hear thee sadly say, — 
If this remembered he. 
Why linger thus to-day ? 

Why doubt and question me f 

Oh, love to angels all unknown ! 
I turn from sin and self aside ; 
Thou hast the idol self o'erthrown, 
I only see the Crucified; 
I only hear thee say, — 

A feast is spread for thee 
On this and every day, 
If thou but follow me ! 

Anson Davies Fitz Randolph 



TO A YOUNG CHILD 

As doth his heart who travels far from 

home 
Leap up whenever he by chance doth 

see 
One from his mother-country lately come, 
Friend from my home — thus do I welcome 

thee. 



Thou art so late arrived that I the tale 
Of thy high lineage on thy brow can trace. 
And almost feel the breath of that soft 

gale 
That wafted thee unto this desert place. 
And half can hear those ravishing sounds 

that flowed 
From out Heaven's gate when it was oped 

for thee. 
That thou awhile mightst leave thy bright 

abode 
Amid these lone and desolate tracks to be 
A homesick, weary wanderer, and then 
Return unto thy native land again. 

Eliza Scudder 



THE PILGRIM 

A PILGRIM am I, on my way 

To seek and find the Holy Land; 
Scarce had I started, when there lay 

And marched round me a fourfold band: 
A smiling Joy, a weeping Woe, 
A Hope, a Fear, did with me go; 
And one may come, or one be gone; 
But I am never more alone. 

My little Hope, she pines and droops, 

And finds it hard to live on earth; 
But then some pitying angel stoops 
To lift her out of frost and dearth, 
And bears her on before, and up, 
To taste, out of bur Saviour's cup, 
Such cheer as here she cannot find, 
While patiently I plod behind. 

Thus oft I send her from below — 

Poor little Hope — for change of air. 
I miss her sorely; but I know 
That God of her is taking care. 

And when my earthly course is done, 
To heaven's gate I '11 see her run 
To meet me mid the shining bands, 
With full fruition in her hands. 

My Fear I give to Faith to still 

With lullabies upon her breast. 
She sings to him, " Our Father's will. 
Not ours, be done, for His is best," 
And lays him down to sleep in bowers— 
Beneath the cross — of passion-flowerSr 
But ever yet he wakes in pain. 
And finds his way to me again. 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



299 



But Woe, — she scarce will lose her bold. 

She sits and walks and runs with me, 
And watches. Ere the sun with gold 
Pays to the East his entrance fee 
She stirs, and stares me in the face. 
And drives me from each stopping- 
place. 
A guardian angel in disguise 
Seems looking through her tearful 
eyes. 

Perhaps she hath a charge from God 

To see that ne'er, through Satan's camp, 
I slumber on my dangerous way 
Too sound or long. A safety lamp 
Meantime by Joy is carried nigh, 
Somewhat aloof; for he is shy. 
Too shy within my grasp to stay. 
Though seldom is he far away. 

Thus, fellow-pilgrims, fare we on; 

But, in what mortals call my death. 
My Fear is doomed to die anon; 

When Woe shall leave me safe, — so 
saith 
My sweet-voiced Hope, — and turn to 

bring 
Some other soul ; while Joy shall spring 
With me through heaven's strait door, 

to be 
Forever of my company ! 

Sarah Hammond Palfrey 



A STRIP OF BLUE 

I DO not own an inch of land, 

But all I see is mine, — 
The orchard and the mowing-fields, 

The lawns and gardens fine. 
The winds my tax-collectors are. 

They bring me tithes divine, — 
Wild scents and subtle essences, 

A tribute rare and free ; 
And, more magnificent than all, 

My window keeps for me 
A glimpse of blue immensity, — 

A little strip of sea. 

Richer am I than he who owns 
Great fleets and argosies; 

I have a share in every ship 
Won by the inland breeze. 

To loiter on yon airy road 
Above the apple-trees. 



I freight them with my untold dreams; 

Each bears my own picked crew; 
And nobler cargoes wait for them 

Than ever India knew, — 
My ships that sail into the East 

Across that outlet blue. 

Sometimes they seem like living shapes, 

The people of the sky, — 
Guests in white raiment coming down 

From heaven, which is close by; 
I call them by familiar names, 

As one by one draws nigh. 
So white, so light, so spirit-like. 

From violet mists they bloom ! 
The aching wastes of the unknown 

Are half reclaimed from gloom, 
Since on life's hospitable sea 

All souls find sailing-room. 

The ocean grows a weariness 

With nothing else in sight; 
Its east and west, its north and south, 

Spread out from morn till night; 
We miss the warm, caressing shore, 

Its brooding shade and light. 
A part is greater than the whole; 

By hints are mysteries told. 
The fringes of eternity, — 

God's sweeping garment-fold. 
In that bright shred of glittering sea, 

I reach out for and hold. 

The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl, 

Float in upon the naist; 
The waves are broken precious stones,— 

Sapphire and amethyst 
Washed from celestial basement walls. 

By suns unsetting kist. 
Out through the utmost gates of space, 

Past where the gray stars drift. 
To the widening Infinite, my soul 

Glides on, a vessel swift. 
Yet loses not her anchorage 

In yonder azure rift. 

Here sit I, as a little child; 

The threshold of God's door 

Is that clear band of chrysoprase; 

Now the vast temple floor. 
The blinding glory of the dome 

I bow my head before. 
Thy universe, God, is home, 

In height or depth, to me; 



300 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Yet here upon thy footstool green 

Content am I to be; 
Glad when is oped unto my need 

Some sea-like glimpse of Thee. 

Lucy Larcom 



'TIS 



BUT A LITTLE FADED 
FLOWER 



'Tis but a little faded flower, 

But oh, how fondly dear ! 
'T will bring me back one golden hour, 

Through many a weary year. 



I may not to the world impart 

The secret of its power. 
But treasured in my inmost heart, 

I keep my faded flower. 

Where is the heart that doth not keep, 

Within its inmost core, 
Some fond remembrance, hidden deep. 

Of days that are no more ? 
Who hath not saved some trifling thing 

More prized than jewels rare — 
A faded flower, a broken ring, 

A tress of golden hair ? 

Ellen Clementine Howarth 



II 



OLIVIA 

What are the long waves singing so mourn- 
fully evermore ? 

What are they singing so mournfully as 
they weep ou the sandy shore ? 

" Olivia, oh, Olivia ! " — what else can it 
seem to be ? 

"Olivia, lost Olivia, will never return to 
thee ! " 

" Olivia, lost Olivia ! " — what else can the 
sad song be ? — 

" Weep and mourn, she will not return, — 
she cannot return, to thee ! " 

And strange it is when the low winds sigh, 

and strange when the loud winds 

blow. 
In the rustle of trees, in the roar of the 

storm, in the sleepiest streamlet's 

flow, 
Forever, from ocean or river, ariseth the 

same sad moan, — 
" She sleeps ; let her sleep ; wake her not. 

It were best she should rest, and 

alone." 
Forever the same sad requiem comes up 

from the sorrowful sea. 
For the lovely, the lost Olivia, who cannot 

return to me. 

Alas ! I fear 't is not in the air, or the 
sea, or the trees, — that strain : 

I fear 't is a wrung heart aching, and the 
throb of a tortured brain; 



And the shivering whisper of startled 
leaves, and the sob of the waves as 
they roll, — 

I fear they are only the echo of the song 
of a suffering soul, — 

Are only the passionless echo of the voice 
that is ever with me: 

" The lovely, the lost Olivia will never re- 
turn to thee ! " 

I stand in the dim gray morning, where 

once I stood, to mark, 
Gliding away along the bay, like a bird, 

her white- winged bark; 
And when through the Golden Gate the 

sunset radiance rolled, 
And the tall masts melted to thinnest 

threads in the glowing haze of 

gold, 
I said, " To thine arms I give her, O kind 

and shining sea. 
And in one long moon from this June eve 

you shall let her return to me." 

But the wind from the far spice islands 

came back, and it sang with a 

sigh, — 
" The ocean is rich with the treasure it has 

hidden from you and the sky." 
And where, amid rocks and green sea-weed, 

the storm and the tide were at 

war. 
The nightly-sought waste was still vacant 

when I looked to the cloud and the 

star; 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



301 



And soon the sad wind and dark ocean 
unceasingly sang unto me, 

" The lovely, the lost Olivia will never re- 
turn to thee ! " 

Dim and still the landscape lies, but 

shadowless as heaven, 
For the growing morn and the low west 

moon on everything shine even; 
The ghosts of the lost have departed, that 

nothing can ever redeem. 
And Nature, in light, sweet slumber, is 

dreaming her morning dream. 
'T is morn and our Lord has awakened, and 

the souls of the blessed are free. 
O, come from the caves of the ocean ! 

Olivia, return unto me ! 

What thrills me ? What comes near me ? 
Do I stand on the sward alone ? 

Was that a light vdud, or a whisper ? a 
touch, or the pulse of a tone ? 

Olivia ! whose spells from my slumber my 
broken heart sway and control, 

At length bring'st thou death to me, dear- 
est, or rest to my suffering soul ? 

No sound but the psalm of the ocean: 
" Bow down to the solemn decree, — 

The lovely, the lost Olivia will never re- 
turn to thee ! " 

And still are the long waves singing so 

mournfully evermore; 
Still are they singing so mournfully as they 

weep on the sandy shore, — 
" Olivia, lost Olivia ! " so ever 'tis doomed 

to be, — 
" Olivia, lost Olivia will never return to 

thee ! " 
" Olivia, lost Olivia ! " — what else could 

the sad song be ? — 
" Weep and mourn, she will not return, — 

she cannot return to thee ! " 

Edward Pollock 



UNDER THE SNOW 

It was Christmas Eve in the year fourteen, 
And, as ancient dalesmen used to tell, 
The wildest winter they ever had seen, 
With the snow lying deep on moor and fell, 

When Wagoner John got out his team, 
Smiler and Whitefoot, Duke and Gray, 



With the light in his eyes of a young man's 

dream, 
As he thought of his wedding on New 

Year's Day 

To Euth, the maid with the bonnie brown 

hair, 
And eyes of the deepest, sunniest blue, 
Modest and winsome, and wondrous fair, 
And true to her troth, for her heart was 

true. 

" Thou 's surely not going ! " shouted mine 

host, 
" Thou '11 be lost in the drift, as sure as 

thou 's born ; 
Thy lass winnot want to wed wi' a ghost, 
And that 's what thou '11 be on Christmas 

morn. 

" It 's eleven long miles from Skipton toon 
To Blueberg booses 'e Washburn dale: 
Thou had better turn back and sit thee 

doon, 
And comfort thy heart wi' a drop o' good 

ale." 

Turn the swallows flying south, 
Turn the vines against the sun, 
Herds from rivers in the drouth, 
Men must dare or nothing 's done. 

So what cares the lover for storm or drift, 
Or peril of death on the haggard way ? 
He sings to himself like a lark in the lift, 
And the joy in his heart turns December 
to May. 

But the wind from the north brings a 
deadly chill 

Creeping into his heart, and the drifts are 
deep, 

Where the thick of the storm strikes Blue- 
berg hill. 

He is weary and falls in a pleasant sleep, 

And dreams he is walking by Washburn 

side. 
Walking with Ruth on a summer's day. 
Singing that song to his bonnie bride, 
His own wife now forever and aye. 

Now read me this riddle, how Euth should 

hear 
That song of a heart in the clutch of doom 



302 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Steal on her ear, distinct and clear 
As if her lover was in the room. 

And read me this riddle, how Kuth should 

know. 
As she bounds to throw open the heavy 

door, 
That her lover was lost in the drifting snow, 
Dying or dead, on the great wild moor. 

"Help! help!" "Lost! lost!" 
Rings through the night as she rushes away, 
Stumbling, blinded and tempest-tossed, 
Straight to the drift where her lover lay. 

And swift they leap after her into the night. 
Into the drifts by Blueberg hill, 
Ridsdale and Robinson, each with a light, 
To find her there holding him white and 
still. 

" He was dead in the drift, then," 

I hear them say, 

As I listen in wonder, 

Forgetting to play, 

Fifty years syne come Christmas Day. 

" Nay, nay, they were wed ! " the dales- 
man cried, 

" By Parson Carmalt o' New Year's Day; 

Bless ye ! Ruth were me great-great grand- 
sire's bride. 

And Maister Frankland gave her away." 

"But how did she find him under the 

snow ? " 
They cried with a laughter touched with 

tears. 
" Nay, lads," he said softly, " we never can 

know — 
*' No, not if we live a hundred years. 

" There 's a sight o' things gan 

To the making o' man." 

Then I rushed to my play 

With a whoop and away, 

Fifty years syne come Christmas Day. 

Robert Collyer 



TACKING SHIP OFF SHORE 

The weather-leech of the topsail shivers. 
The bowlines strain, and the lee-shrouds 
slacken, 



The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, 
And the waves with the coming squall- 
cloud blacken. 

Open one point on the weather-bow, 

Is the light-house tall on Fire Island 
Head. 
There 's a shade of doubt on the captain's 
brow, 
And the pilot watches the heaving lead. 

I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye 
To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze. 

Till the muttered order of " Full and by ! " 
Is suddenly changed for " Full for 

stays ! " 

The ship bends lower before the breeze. 
As her broadside fair to the blast she lays ; 

And she swifter springs to the rising seas. 
As the pilot calls, " Stand by for stays ! " 

It is silence all, as each in his place. 

With the gathered coil in his hardened 
hands. 

By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace, 
Waiting the watchword impatient stands. 

And the light on Fire Island Head draws 
near. 
As, trumpet- winged, the pilot's shout 
From his post on the bowsprit's heel I hear. 
With the welcome call of " Ready ! 
About ! " 

No time to spare ! It is touch and go; 
And the captain growls, " Down helm ! 
hard down ! " 
As my weight on the whirling spokes I 
throw. 
While heaven grows black with the 
storm-cloud's frown. 

High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray, 
As we meet the shock of the plunging 
sea; 
And my shoulder stiff to the wheel I lay. 
As I answer, " Ay, ay, sir ! Ha-a-rd 
a-lee ! " 

With the swerving leap of a startled steed 
The ship flies fast in the eye of the wind. 

The dangerous shoals on the lee recede. 
And the headland white we have left 
behind. 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



303 



The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse, 
And belly and tug at the groaning cleats; 

The spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps ; 
And thunders the order, " Tacks and 
sheets ! " 

Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of 
the crew, 
Hisses the rain of the rushing squall: 
The sails are aback from clew to clew, 
And now is the moment for " Mainsail, 
haul ! " 

And the heavy yards, like a baby's toy, 
By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung: 

She holds her way, and I look with joy 
For the first white spray o'er the bul- 
warks flung. 

" Let go, and haul ! " 'T is the last com- 
mand, 
And the head-sails fill to the blast once 
more: 
Astern and to leeward lies the land. 

With its breakers white on the shingly 
shore. 

What matters the reef, or the rain, or the 
squall ? 
I steady the helm for the open sea; 
The first mate clamors, " Belay, there, all ! " 
And the captain's breath once more 
comes free. 

And so off shore let the good ship fly; 

Little care I how the gusts may blow, 
In my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry. 
Eight bells have struck, and my watch is 
below. 

Walter Mitchell 



ANTONY TO CLEOPATRA 

I AM dying, Egypt, dying ! 

Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast. 
And the dark Plutonian shadows 

Gather on the evening blast; 
Let thine arm, O Queen, enfold me, 

Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear, 
Listen to the great heart secrets 

Thou, and thou alone, must hear. 

Though my scarred and veteran legions 
Bear their eagles high no more, 



And my wrecked and scattered galleys 
Strew dark Actium's fatal shore; 

Though no glittering guards surround me, 
Prompt to do their master's will, 

I must perish like a Roman, 
Die the great Triumvir still. 

Let not Csesar's servile minions 

Mock the lion thus laid low; 
'T was no foeman's arm that felled him, 

'T was his own that struck the blow : 
His who, pillowed on thy bosom. 

Turned aside from glory's ray — 
His who, drunk with thy caresses, 

Madly threw a world away. 

Should the base plebeian rabble 

Dare assail my name at Rome, 
Where the noble spouse Octavia 

Weeps within her widowed home. 
Seek her; say the gods bear witness, — 

Altars, augurs, circling wings, — 
That her blood, with mine commingled. 

Yet shall mount the thrones of kings. 

And for thee, star-eyed Egyptian — 

Grlorious sorceress of the Nile ! 
Light the path to Stygian horrors. 

With the splendor of thy smile; 
Give the Caesar crowns and arches, 

Let his brow the laurel twine : 
I can scorn the senate's triumphs, 

Triumphing in love like thine. 

I am dying, Egypt, dying ! 

Hark ! the insulting foeman's cry; 
They are coming — quick, my falchion ! 

Let me front them ere I die. 
Ah, no more amid the battle 

Shall my heart exulting swell; 
Isis and Osiris guard thee — 

Cleopatra — Rome — farewell ! 

William Haines Lytle 

THE SECOND MATE 

" Ho, there ! Fisherman, hold your hand ! 

Tell me, what is that far away, — 
There, where over the isle of sand 

Hangs the mist-cloud sullen and gray ? 
See ! it rocks with a ghastly life. 

Rising and rolling through clouds of 
spray. 
Right in the midst of the breakers' strife, — 

Tell me what is it, Fisherman, pray ? " 



304 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



" That, good sir, was a steamer stout 

As ever paddled around Cape Race ; 
And many 's the wild and stormy bout 
She had with the winds, in that self -same 
place ; 
But her time was come ; and at ten o'clock 
Last night she struck on that lonesome 
shore ; 
And her sides were gnawed by the hidden 
rock, 
And at dawn this morning she was no 
more." 

" Come, as you seem to know, good man, 

The terrible fate of this gallant ship, 
Tell me about her all that you can; 

And here 's my flask to moisten your 
lip. 
Tell me how many she had aboard, — 

Wives, and husbands, and lovers true, — 
How did it fare with her human hoard ? 

Lost she many, or lost she few ? " 

" Master, I may not drink of your flask, 

Already too moist I feel my lip; 
But I 'm ready to do what else you ask. 

And spin you my yarn about the ship, 
'T was ten o'clock, as I said, last night. 

When she struck the breakers and went 
ashoi-e ; 
And scarce had broken the morning's light 

Than she sank in twelve feet of water or 



" But long ere this they knew her doom. 

And the captain called all hands to 
prayer; 
And solemnly over the ocean's boom 

Their orisons wailed on the troublous 
air. 
And round about the vessel there rose 

Tall plumes of spray as white as snow, 
Like angels in their ascension clothes, 

Waiting for those who prayed below. 

" So these three hundred people clung 

As well as they could, to spar and rope; 
With a word of prayer upon every tongue, 

Nor on any face a glimmer of hope. 
But there was no blubbering weak and 
wild, — 

Of tearful faces I saw but one, 
A rough old salt, who cried like a child. 

And not for himself, but the captain's 
son. 



" The captain stood on the quarter-deck. 

Firm but pale, with trumpet in hand; 
Sometimes he looked at the breaking 
wreck. 

Sometimes he sadly looked to land; 
And often he smiled to cheer the crew — 

But, Lord ! the smile was terrible grim — 
Till over the quarter a huge sea flew; 

And that was the last they saw of 
him. 

" I saw one young fellow with his bride, 

Standing amidships upon the wreck; 
His face was white as the boiling tide. 

And she was clinging about his neck. 
And I saw them try to say good-by, 

But neither could hear the other speak; 
So they floated away through the sea to 
die — 

Shoulder to sboulder, and cheek to cheek. 

" And there was a child, but eight at 
best. 
Who went his way in a sea she shipped, 
All the while holding upon his breast 
A little pet parrot whose wings were 
clipped. 
And, as the boy and the bird went by. 

Swinging away on a tall wave's crest. 
They were gripped by a man, with a drown- 
ing cry. 
And together the three went down to 
rest. 

" And so the crew went one by one. 

Some with gladness, and few with fear, — 
Cold and hardship such work had done 

That few seemed frightened when death 
was near. 
Thus every soul on board went down, — 

Sailor and passenger, little and great; 
The last that sank was a man of my 
town, 

A capital swimmer, — the second mate." 

" Now, lonely fisherman, who are you 

That say you saw this terrible wreck ? 
How do I know what you say is true. 

When every mortal was swept from the 
deck? 
Where were you in that hour of death ? 

How did you learn what you relate ? " 
His answer came in an under-breath : 

" Master, I was the second mate ! " 

FiTZ-jAMES O'Brien I 



1 See BioGEAPHicAL Note, p. 812. 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



305 



III 



TO AN AUTUMN LEAF 

The scarlet tide of summer's life 
Is ebbing toward a shoreless sea; 

Late fell before the reaper's knife 
The ripened grain — a type of thee. 

How fresh and young the earth looked, 
when 

The sun first kissed thy silken head ! 
Now blazing grass and smouldering fea 

Burn incense for an empress dead. 

With gorgeous robes she lies in state, 
Her trailing banners cloud the sky: 

When Atropos no more will wait, 
'T is joy so gloriously to die. 

Whose loss is it, if thou and I 

Are dropped into the fecund earth ? 

A privilege it is to die 

When life is of no further worth. 

Some newer lives will fill the place 
Of which we feel ourselves bereft; 

Mayhap, though shadows for a space, 
Our vital essence will be left. 

The spirit of each form that grows 
Survives the mould in which 't is cast: 

The universe will not repose, 

Though death and life each follow fast. 

Whence comes, where goes the spark we 
see ? 

Till time's last ensign is unfurled, 
This miracle of life will be, 

For aye, the problem of the world. 

Who reads a page of Nature's book, 
How clear soe'er the text may be, 

Needs something of a wizard's look, 
If he would probe her mystery. 

Oh, for an art like palmistry. 

That I might scan thy mazy veins ! 

I long to know thy history, — 

Why blood thy transient record stains. 

The symmetry of thy outline. 

The curious function of each part, 
Betray the work of love divine : — 
^ Does it conceal a throbbing heart ? 



Dost know the mortal life of man, 

Its wants and wrongs and pangs and 
fears ? 

Does sorrow trouble thy brief span. 
Although denied relief of tears ? 

Hast thou a soul as well as I, 

To breathe and blush and live the same ? 
What matters if I make outcry, 

And call myself a prouder name ? 

One made us both by His high will, 
He gave alike and takes away: 

We grind as small in His great mill, 
" Dust unto dust," our roundelay. 

Albert Mathews 

EBB AND FLOW 

I WALKED beside the evening sea. 
And dreamed a dream that could not be; 
The waves that plunged along the shore 
Said only — " Dreamer, dream no more ! " 

But still the legions charged the beach; 
Loud rang their battle-cry, like speech; 
But changed was the imperial strain: 
It murmured — " Dreamer, dream again ! " 

I homeward turned from out the gloom, — ^ 
That sound I heard not in my room ; 
But suddenly a sound, that stirred 
Within my very breast, I heard. 

It was my heart, that like a sea 
Within my breast beat ceaselessly: 
But like the waves along the shore. 
It said — " Dream on ! " and " Dream no 
more ! " 

George William Curtis 



THALATTA! THALATTA ! 

CRY OF THE TEN THOUSAND 

I STAND upon the summit of my life : 
Behind, the camp, the court, the field, the 

grove. 
The battle and the burden ; vast, afar. 
Beyond these weary ways. Behold ! the 

Sea! 
The sea o'erswept by clouds and winds and 

wings, 



3o6 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



By thoughts and wishes manifold, whose 

breath 
Is freshness and whose mighty pulse is 

peace. 
Palter no question of the horizon dim, — 
Cut loose the bark; such voyage itself is 

rest. 
Majestic motion, unimpeded scope, 
A widening heaven, a current without 

care. 
Eternity ! — deliverance, promise, course ! 
Time-tired souls salute thee from the shore. 
Joseph Brownlee Brown 



INCOGNITA OF RAPHAEL 

Long has the summer sunlight shone 
On the fair form, the quaint costume; 

Yet, nameless still, she sits, unknown, 
A lady in her youthful bloom. 

Fairer for this ! no shadows cast 
Their blight upon her perfect lot, 

Whate'er her future or her past 
In this bright moment matters not. 

No record of her high descent 

There needs, nor memory of her name; 
Enough that Raphael's colors blent 

To give her features deathless fame ! 

'T was his anointing hand that set 
The crown of beauty on her brow; 

Still lives its early radiance yet, 
As at the earliest, even now. 

'T is not the ecstasy that glows 
In all the rapt Cecilia's grace ; 

Nor yet the holy, calm repose 
He painted on the Virgin's face. 

Less of the heavens, and more of earth, 
There lurk within these earnest eyes. 

The passions that have had their birth 
And grown beneath Italian skies. 

What mortal thoughts, and cares, and 
dreams. 

What hopes, and fears, and longings rest 
Where falls the folded veil, or gleams 

The golden necklace on her breast ! 

What mockery of the painted glow 
May shade the secret soul within; 



What griefs from passion's overflow, 
What shame that follows after sin ! 

Yet calm as heaven's serenest deeps 

Are those pure eyes, those glances pure; 

And queenly is the state she keeps. 
In beauty's lofty trust secure. 

And who has strayed, by happy chance. 
Through all those grand and pictured 
halls. 

Nor felt the magic of her glance, 
As when a voice of music calls ? 

Not soon shall I forget the day, — 

Sweet day, in spring's unclouded time, 

While on the glowing canvas lay 
The light of that delicious clime, — 

I marked the matchless colors wreathed 
On the fair brow, the peerless cheek; 

The lips, I fancied, almost breathed 
The blessings that they could not speak. 

Fair were the eyes with mine that bent 
Upon the picture their mild gaze. 

And dear the voice that gave consent 
To all the utterance of my praise. 

O fit companionship of thought; 

O happy memories, shrined apart; 
The rapture that the painter wrought, 

The kindred rapture of the heart ! 

William Allen Butler 



ON ONE WHO DIED IN MAY 

Why, Death, what dost thou here, 

This time o' year ? 
Peach-blow and apple-blossom; 
Clouds, white as my love's bosom; 
Warm wind o' the west 
Cradling the robin's nest; 
Young meadows hasting their green laps to 

fill 
With golden dandelion and daffodil: 
These are fit sights for spring; 
But, oh, thou hateful thing. 
What dost thou here ? 

Why, Death, what dost thou here, 

This time o' year ? 
Fair, at the old oak's knee;, 
The young anemone; 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



307 



Fair, the plash places set 


Spurns at the grave, leaps to the welcoming 


With dog-tooth violet; 


skies, 


The first sloop-sail, 


And burns a steadfast star to steadfast 


The shad-flower pale; 


eyes. 


Sweet are all sights, 


Clarence Chatham Cook 


Sweet are all sounds of spring; 




But thou, thou ugly thing, 




What dost thou here ? 


BUT ONCE 


Dark Death let fall a tear. 


Tell me, wide wandering soul, in all thy 


Why am I here ? 


quest 


Oh, heart ungrateful ! Will man never 


Sipping or draining deep from crystal 


know 


rim 


I am his friend, nor ever was his foe ? 


Where pleasure sparkled, when did over- 


Whose the sweet season, if it be not mine ? 


brim 


Mine, not the bobolinks, that song divine. 


That draught its goblet with the fullest 


Chasing the shadows o'er the flying wheat ! 


zest? 


'Tis a dead voice, not his, that sounds so 


Of all thy better bliss what deemst thou 


sweet. 


best? 


Whose passionate heart burns in this flam- 


Then thus my soul made answer. Ecstasy 


ing rose " 


Comes once, like birth, like death, and 


But his, whose passionate heart long since 


once have I 


lay still ? 


Been, oh ! so madly happy, that the rest 


Whose wan hope pales this snowlike lily 


Is tame as surgeless seas. It was a night 


tall, 


Sweet, beautiful as she, my love, my light; 


Beside the garden wall, 


Fair as the memory of that keen delight. 


But his whose radiant eyes and lily grace 


Through trees the moon rose steady, and it 


Sleep in the grave that crowns yon tufted 


blessed 


hill? 


Her forehead chastely. Her uplifted look, 




Calm with deep passion, I for answer 


All hope, all memory. 


took, 


Have their deep springs in me; 


Then sudden heart to heart was wildly 


And love, that else might fade, 


pressed. 


By me immortal made, 


Theodore Winthrop 



IV 



ALMA MATER'S ROLL 

I SAW her scan her sacred scroll, 
I saw her read her record roll 
Of men who wrought to win the right, 
Of men who fought and died in fight; - 
When now, a hundred years by-gone 
The day she welcomed Washington, 
She showed to him her boys and men. 
And told him of their duty then. 

" Here are the beardless boys I sent, 
And whispered to them my intent 
To free a struggling continent. 



" The marks upon this scroll will show 
Their words a hundred years ago. 

" Otis ! " " No lesser death was given 

To him than by a bolt from heaven ! " 

" Quincy ! " " He died before he heard 

The echo of his thunder word." 

" And these were stripling lads whom I 

Sent out to speak a nation's cry, 

In ' glittering generality ' 

Of living words that cannot die : 



" John Hancock ! " « Here." 
ams ! " " Here." 



" John Ad« 



3o8 



FIRST LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



" Paine, Gerry, Hooper, Williams ! " 

« Here." 
" My Narragansett Ellery ! " " Here." 
" Sam Adams, first of freemen ! " " Here." 
" My beardless boys, my graybeard men, 
Summoned to take the fatal pen 
Which gave eternal rights to men, — 
All present, or accounted for." 

I saw her scan again the scroll, — 
I heard her read again the roll; 
I heard her name her soldier son, 
Ward, called from home by Lexington. 
He smiled and laid his baton down, 
Proud to be next to Washington ! 
He called her list of boys and men 
Who served her for her battles then. 
From North to South, from East to West, 
He named her bravest and her best. 
From distant fort, from bivouac near : 
" Brooks, Eustis, Cobb, and Thacher ! " 

" Here." 
Name after name, with quick reply. 
As twitched bis lip and flashed his eye ; 
But then he choked and bowed his head, — 
" Warren at Bunker Hill lies dead." 

The roll was closed ; he only said, 
" All present, or accounted for." 

That scroll is stained with time and dust ; 
They were not faithless to their trust. 

" If those days come again, — if I 
Call on the grandsons, — what reply ? 
What deed of courage new display 
These fresher parchments of to-day ? " 

I saw her take the newest scroll, — 
I heard her read the whiter roll ; 
And as the answers came, the while 
Our mother nodded with a smile: 
"Charles Adams!" "Here." "George 

Bancroft ! " « Here." 
"The Hoars!" "Both here." "Dick 

Dana!" "Here." 

1 Bookra = 



" Wads worth ! " " He died at duty's call." 
" Webster ! " " He fell as brave men 

fall." 
" Everett ! " " Struck down in Faneuil 

Hall." 
" Sumner ! " "A nation bears his pall." 
" Shaw, Abbott, Lowell, Savage ! " "All 
Died there, — to live on yonder wall ! " 
" Come East, come West, come far, come 

near, — 
Lee, Bartlett, Davis, Devens ! " " Here." 
" All present, or accounted for." 

Boys, heed the omen ! Let the scroll 
Fill as it may as years unroll ; 
But when again she calls her youth 
To serve her in the ranks of Truth, 
May she find all one heart, one soul, — 
At home or on some distant shore, 
" All present, or accounted for ! " 

Edward Everett Hale 
* B K Dinner, Harvard, 1875 



BOOKRAi 

As I lay asleep in Italy. — Shelley. 

One night I lay asleep in Africa, 
In a closed garden by the city gate ; 
A desert horseman, furious and late. 
Came wildly thundering at the massive bar, 
" Open in Allah's name ! Wake, Mustapha ! 
Slain is the Sultan, — treason, war, and 

hate 
Rage from Fez to Tetuan ! Open straight." 
The watchman heard as thunder from 

afar : 
" Go to ! In peace this city lies asleep ; 
To all-knowing Allah 't is no news you 

bring ; " 
Then turned in slumber still his watch to 

keep. 
At once a nightingale began to sing, 
In oriental calm the garden lay, — 
Panic and war postponed another day. 

Charles Dudley Warner 
To-morrow. 



Til 

SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD 

(IN THREE DIVISIONS) 

FROM THE BEGINNING OF THE CIVIL WAR TO THE HUNDREDTH 
PRESIDENTIAL YEAR 

1861-1889 



Mitchell [S. Weir's) first book of verse, " The Hill of Stones, and OtKer Poems " {Boston) did 

not appear until 1882 
Hayne [Paul BJ's) " Poems " ; Boston, 18^4 

Winter's " Poems " : Boston, 18^4 ; " The Queen's Domain " ; Boston, i8j8 
Mrs. Moulton's " This, That, and the Other " ; Boston, 18^4.; " Poems " ; Boston, 1877 
Aldrich's " The Bells " ; New York, 1834 ; " The Ballad of Babie Bell " : JV. Y. Journal oj 

Commerce, 18 j^ ; " The Ballad of Babie Bell, and Other Poems " ; New York, 18^8 
Stedman's " Poems Lyrical and Idyllic " ; New York, i860 
Piatt's and Howells's " Poems of Two Friends " ; Columbus, i8jg 
Mr. and Mrs. Piatt's " The Nests at Washington " ." New York, 1863 
Mrs. Spofford's " Amber Gods" prose : Boston, 1863 > " Poems " ; Boston, 1881 
Howells's " No Love Lost " ; New York, i86g ; " Poems " ; Boston, 1873 
Harte's " Luck of Roaring Camp " : Overland Monthly, 1868 ; " Poems " ; Boston, 1870 
Miller's " Songs of the Sierras " : Boston, 187 1 
Hay's " Pike County Ballads " : Boston, 1871 
Mrs. Jackson's " Verses by H. H." : Boston, 1873 
Lanier's " Corn " ; Lippincott's, 1874 ; " Centennial Cantata," 1876 



Miss Lazarus' s " Poems and Translations " ; New York, 1866 ; " Admetus and Other Poems " ; 

New York, 1871 
Sill's " The Hermitage " : New York, 1867 
O'Reilly's " Songs from the Southern Seas " : Boston, 1873 
Gilder's " The New Day " : New York, 187^ 

Miss Coolbrith's " A Perfect Day, and Other Poems " ; San Francisco, 1881 
Mrs. E. M. {Hutchinson) Cortissoz's " Songs and Lyrics " : Boston, 1881 
Riley's " The Old Swimmin'-Hole, and 'Leven More Poems " ; Indianapolis, 1883 
Thompson' s " Songs of Fair Weather " : Boston, 1883 
Miss Thomas's " A New Year's Masque " ; Boston, 1884 
Bates's " Berries of the Brier " : Boston, 1886 
Field's " Culture's Garland " : Boston, 1887 ; " A Little Book of Western Verse " ; Chicago, 

i88g 
Tabb's " Poems " ; Baltimore, 1882 ; " Poems " ; Boston, i8g4 
Markham's " The Man with the Hoe, and Other Poems " ; New York, i8gg 

3 

Woodberrf s " The North Shore Watch, a Threnody" {privately printed) : Cambridge, 1883; 

" The North Shore Watch, and Other Poems " ; Boston, i8go 
Bunner's " Airs from A ready " ; New York, 1884 
Miss Guiney's " Songs at the Start " / Boston, 1884 
Miss Cone's " Oberon and Puck " : New York, i88j 
Sherman's " Madrigals and Catches " ; New York, 1887 

Miss Reese's " A Branch of May " ; Baltimore, 1887 ; ^^ A Handful of Lavender " .* Boston, i8gi 
Miss Monroe's " Valeria, and Other Poems " ; Chicago, i8gi ; " Commemoration Ode " : deliV' 

ered, Chicago, i8g2, published, Chicago, i8g3 
Garland's " Prairie Songs " ; Cambridge and Chicago, i8g3 
Burton's " Dumb in June " ; Boston, i8g3 



The dates given are those of copyright entry 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD 

(IN THREE DIVISIONS) 

DIVISION I 

("MITCHELL, TIMROD, HAYNE, MRS. JACKSON, MISS DICKINSON, STEDMAN, THE PIATTS, 
MRS. SPOFFORD, MRS. MOULTON, WINTER, ALDRICH, HOWELLS, HAY, HARTE, SILL, 
MILLER, LANIER, AND OTHERS) 



MW JBeir ^itcf^tlV 



ON 



A BOY'S FIRST READING 
OF "KING HENRY V" 



When youtli was lord of my unchallenged 

fate, 
And time seemed but the vassal of my will, 
I entertained certain guests of state — 
The great of older days, who, faithful still. 
Have kept with me the pact my youth had 

made. 

And I remember how one galleon rare 
From the far distance of a time long dead 
Came on the wings of a fair-fortuned air, 
With sound of martial music heralded. 
In blazonry of storied shields arrayed. 

So the Great Harry with high trumpetings, 
The wind of victory in her burly sails ! 
And all her deck with clang of armor 

rings : 
And under-flown the Lily standard trails. 
And over-flown the royal Lions ramp. 

The waves she rode are strewn with silent 

wrecks. 
Her proud sea-comrades once; but ever yet 
Comes time - defying laughter from her 

decks, 
Where stands the lion-lord Plantagenet, 
Large-hearted, merry, king of court and 

camp. 

Sail on ! sail on ! The fatal blasts of time 
That spared so few, shall thee with joy 
escort: 



And with the stormy thunder of thy rhyme 
Shalt thou salute full many a ceuturied port 
With " Ho ! for Harry and red Agin- 
court ! " 



TO A MAGNOLIA FLOWER IN 
THE GARDEN OF THE ARME- 
NIAN CONVENT AT VENICE 

I SAW thy beauty in its high estate 
Of perfect empire, where at set of sun 

In the cool twilight of thy lucent leaves 
The dewy freshness told that day was 
done. 

Hast thou no gift beyond thine ivory cone's 
Surpassing loveliness ? Art thou not 
near — 
More near than we — to nature's silent- 
ness; 
Is it not voicef ul to thy finer ear ? 

Thy folded secrecy doth like a charm 
Compel to thought. What spring-born 
yearning lies 
Within the quiet of thy stainless breast 
That doth with languorous passion seem 
to rise ? 

The soul doth truant angels entertain 
Who with reluctant joy their thoughts 
confess : 
Low-breathing, to these sister spirits give 
The virgin mysteries of thy heart to 
guess. 



1 See BioGEAPHicAL Note, p. 810. 



312 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



What whispers hast thou from yon child- 
like sea 
That sobs all night beside these garden 
walls ? 
Canst thou interpret what the lark hath 
sung 
When from the choir of heaven her 
music falls ? 

If for companionship of purity 

The equal pallor of the risen moon 

Disturb thy dreams, dost know to read 
aright 
Her silver tracery on the dark lagoon ? 

The mischief-making fruitf ulness of May 
Stirs all the garden folk with vague de- 
sires : 
Doth there not reach thine apprehensive ear 
The faded longing of these dark-robed 
friars, 

When, in the evening hour to memories 
given, 
Some gray-haired man amid the gather- 
ing gloom 
For one delirious moment sees again 

The gleam of eyes and white - walled 
Erzeroum ? 

Hast thou not loved him for this human 
dream ? 
Or sighed with him who yester-evening 
sat 
Upon the low sea-wall, and saw through 
tears 
His ruined home, and snow-clad Ararat ? 

If thou art dowered with some refined 
sense 
That shares the counsels of the nesting 
bird. 
Canst hear the mighty laughter of the 
earth, 
And all that ear of man hath never 
heard, 

If the abysmal stillness of the night 
Be eloquent for thee, if thou canst read 

The glowing rubric of the morning song, 
Doth each new day no gentle warning 
breed ? 

Shall not the gossip of the maudlin bee. 
The fragrant history of the fallen rose, 



Unto the prescience of instinctive love 
Some humbler prophecy of joy disclose ? 

Cold vestal of the leafy convent cell. 

The traitor days have thy calm trust 
betrayed ; 
The sea - wind boldly parts thy shining 
leaves 
To let the angel in. Be not afraid ! 

The gold-winged sun, divinely penetrant. 
The pure annunciation of the morn 

Breathes o'er thy chastity, and to thy soul 
The tender thrill of motherhood is borne. 

Set wide the glory of thy perfect bloom ! 
Call every wind to share thy scented 
breaths ! 
No life is brief that doth perfection win. 
To-day is thine — to-morrow thou art 
death's ! 



OF ONE WHO SEEMED TO HAVE 
FAILED 

Death 's but one more to-morrow. Thou 

art gray 
With many a death of many a yesterday. 
O yearning heart that lacked the athlete's 

force 
And, stumbling, fell upon the beaten course, 
And looked, and saw with ever glazing eyes 
Some lower soul that seemed to win the 

prize ! 
Lo, Death, the just, who comes to all alike. 
Life's sorry scales of right anew shall 

strike. 
Forth, through the night, on unknown 

shores to win 
The peace of God unstirred by sense of sin ! 
There love without desire shall, like a mist 
At evening precious to the drooping flower. 
Possess thy soul in ownership, and kissed 
By viewless lips, whose touch shall be a 

dower 
Of genius and of winged serenity. 
Thou shalt abide in realms of poesy. 
There soul hath touch of soul, and there 

the great 
Cast wide to welcome thee joy's golden 

gate. 
Freeborn to untold thoughts that age on age 
Caressed sweet singers in their sacred 

sleep, 



SILAS WEIR MITCHELL 



3^3 



Thy soul shall enter on its heritage 

Of God's unuttered wisdom. Thou shalt 

sweep 
With hand assured the ringing lyre of life, 
Till the fierce anguish of its bitter strife, 
Its pain, death, discord, sorrow, and despair, 
Break into rhythmic music. Thou shalt 

share 
The prophet-joy that kept forever glad 
God's poet-souls when all a world was sad. 
Enter and live ! Thou hast not lived be- 
fore; 
We were but soul-cast shadows. Ah, no 

more 
The heart shall bear the burdens of the 

brain ; 
Now shall the strong heart think, nor think 

in vain. 
In the dear company of peace, and those 
Who bore for man life's utmost agony. 
Thy soul shall climb to cliffs of still repose. 
And see before thee lie Time's mystery, 
And that which is God's time. Eternity; 
Whence sweeping over thee dim myriad 

things. 
The awful centuries yet to be, in hosts 
That stir the vast of heaven with formless 

wings. 
Shall cast for thee their shrouds, and, like 

to ghosts. 
Unriddle all the past, till, awed and still. 
Thy soul the secret hath of good and ill. 



THE QUAKER GRAVEYARD 

Four straight brick walls, severely plain, 
A quiet city square surround; 

A level space of nameless graves, — 
The Quakers' burial-ground. 

In gown of gray, or coat of drab, 
They trod the common ways of life, 

With passions held in sternest leash. 
And hearts that knew not strife. 

To yon grim meeting-house they fared, 
With thoughts as sober as their speech. 

To voiceless prayer, to songless praise. 
To hear the elders preach. 

Through quiet lengths of days they came, 
With scarce a change to this repose; 

Of all life's loveliness they took 
The thorn without the rose. 



But in the porch and o'er the graves. 
Glad rings the southward robin's glee, 

And sparrows fill the autumn air 
With merry mutiny; 

While on the graves of drab and gray 
The red and gold of autumn lie, 

And wilful Nature decks the sod 
In gentlest mockery. 



IDLENESS 

There is no dearer lover of lost hours 

Than I. 
I can be idler than the idlest flowers; 
More idly lie 
Than noonday lilies languidly afloat. 
And water pillowed in a windless moat. 

And I can be 
Stiller than some gray stone 
That hath no motion known. 

It seems to me 
That my still idleness doth make my own 

All magic gifts of joy's simplicity. 



A DECANTER OF MADEIRA, 
AGED 86, TO GEORGE BAN- 
CROFT, AGED 86, GREETING 

Good Master, you and I were born 
In " Teacup days " of hoop and hood, 
And when the silver cue hung down, . 
And toasts were drunk, and wine was good; 

When kin of mine (a jolly brood) 

From sideboards looked, and knew full 

well 
What courage they had given the beau, 
How generous made the blushing belle. 

Ah me ! what gossip could I prate 
Of days when doors were locked at din- 
ners ! 
Believe me, I have kissed the lips 
Of many pretty saints — or sinners. 

Lip service have I done, alack ! 
I don't repent, but come what may, 
What ready lips, sir, I have kissed, 
Be sure at least I shall not say. 

Two honest gentlemen are we, — 
I Demi John, whole George are you; 



314 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



When Nature grew us one in years 
She meant to make a generous brew. 

She bade me store for festal hours 
The sun our south-side vineyard knew; 
To sterner tasks she set your life, 
As statesman, writer, scholar, grew. 

Years eighty-six have come and gone ; 
At last we meet. Your health to-night. 
Take from this board of friendly hearts 
The memory of a proud delight. 



The days that went have made you wise, 
There 's wisdom in my rare bouquet. 
I 'm rather paler than I was ; 
And, on my soul, you 're growing gray. 

I like to think, when Toper Time 
Has drained the last of me and you, 
Some here shall say. They both were 

good, — 
The wine we drank, the man we knew. 



ipcncp €imroti 



THE COTTON BOLL 

While I recline 

At ease beneath 

This immemorial pine. 

Small sphere ! 

(By dusky fingers brought this morning 

here 
And shown with boastful smiles), 
I turn thy cloven sheath. 
Through which the soft white fibres peer, 
That, with their gossamer bands, 
Unite, like love, the sea-divided lands. 
And slowly, thread by thread, 
Draw forth the folded strands. 
Than which the trembling line. 
By whose frail help yon startled spider 

fled 
Down the tall spear-grass from his swinging 

bed, 
Is scarce more fine; 
And as the tangled skein 
Unravels in my hands. 
Betwixt me and the noonday light 
A veil seems lifted, and for miles and 

miles 
The landscape broadens on my sight. 
As, in the little boll, there lurked a spell 
Like that which, in the ocean shell, 
With mystic sound 
Breaks down the narrow walls that hem us 

round, 
And turns some city lane 
Into the restless main, 
With all his capes and isles ! 

Yonder bird, 

Which floats, as if at rest, 



In those blue tracts above the thunder, 

where 
No vapors cloud the stainless air, 
And never sound is heard, 
Unless at such rare time 
When, from the City of the Blest, 
Rings down some golden chime. 
Sees not from his high place 
So vast a cirque of summer space 
As widens round me in one mighty field, 
Which, rimmed by seas and sands, 
Doth hail its earliest daylight in the beams 
Of gray Atlantic dawns; 
And, broad as realms made up of many 

lands. 
Is lost afar 

Behind the crimson hills and purple lawns 
Of sunset, among plains which roll their 

streams 
Against the Evening Star ! 
And lo ! 

To the remotest point of sight. 
Although I gaze upon no waste of snow, 
The endless field is white ; 
And the whole landscape glows. 
For many a shining league away. 
With such accumulated light 
As Polar lands would flash beneath a tropic 

day ! 
Nor lack there (for the vision grows, 
And the small charm within my hands — 
More potent even than the fabled one. 
Which oped whatever golden mystery 
Lay hid in fairy wood or magic vale. 
The curious ointment of the Arabian tale — 
Beyond all mortal sense 
Doth stretch my sight's horizon, and I see, 
Beneath its simple influence, 



HENRY TIMROD 



315 



As if, with Uriel's crown, 

I stood in some great temple of the Sun, 

And looked, as Uriel, down !) 

Nor lack there pastures rich and fields all 
green 

With all the common gifts of God. 

For temperate airs and torrid sheen 

Weave Edeus of the sod ; 

Through lands which, look one sea of bil- 
lowy gold 

Broad rivers wind their devious ways ; 

A hundred isles in their embraces fold 

A hundred luminous bays ; 

And through yon purple haze 

Vast mountains lift their plumed peaks 
cloud-crowned ; 

And, save where up their sides the plough- 
man creeps. 

An unhewn forest girds them grandly 
round. 

In whose dark shades a future navy sleeps ! 

Ye Stars, which, though unseen, yet with 
me gaze 

Upon this loveliest fragment of the earth ! 

Thou Sun, that kindlest all thy gentlest 
rays 

Above it, as to light a favorite hearth ! 

Ye Clouds, that in your temples in the 
West 

See nothing brighter than its humblest flow- 
ers ! 

And you, ye Winds, that on the ocean's 
breast 

Are kissed to coolness ere ye reach its bow- 
ers ! 

Bear witness with me in my song of praise, 

And tell the world that, since the world 
began. 

No fairer land hath fired a poet's lays, 

Or given a home to man. 

But these are charms already widely blown ! 

His be the meed whose pencil's trace 

Hath touched our very swamps with grace, 

And round whose tuneful way 

All Southern laurels bloom; 

The Poet of " The Woodlands," unto whom 

Alike are known 

The flute's low breathing and the trumpet's 

tone, 
And the soft west wind's sighs; 
But who shall utter all the debt, 
O Land wherein all powers are met 
That bind a people's heart. 
The world doth owe thee at this day, 



And which it never can repay. 

Yet scarcely deigns to own ! 

Where sleeps the poet who shall fitly sing 

The source wherefrom doth spring 

That mighty commerce which, confined 

To the mean channels of no selfish mart, 

Goes out to every shore 

Of this broad earth, and throngs the sea 

with ships 
That bear no thunders; hushes hungry lips 
In alien lands; 

Joins with a delicate web remotest strands; 
And gladdening rich and poor. 
Doth gild Parisian domes. 
Or feed the cottage - smoke of English 

homes, 
And only bounds its blessings by mankind ! 
In offices like these, thy mission lies. 
My Country ! and it shall not end 
As long as rain shall fall and Heaven bend 
In blue above thee; though thy foes be 

hard 
And cruel as their weapons, it shall guard 
Thy hearth-stones as a bulwark; make thee 

great 
In white and bloodless state; 
And haply, as the years increase — 
Still working through its humbler reach 
With that large wisdom which the ages 

teach — 
Revive the half-dead dream of universal 

peace ! 
As men who labor in that mine 
Of Cornwall, hollowed out beneath the bed 
Of ocean, when a storm rolls overhead, 
Hear the dull booming of the world of 

brine 
Above them, and a mighty muffled roar 
Of winds and waters, yet toil calmly on. 
And split the rock, and pile the massive ore, 
Or carve a niche, or shape the arched roof; 
So I, as calmly, weave my woof 
Of song, chanting the days to come, 
Unsilenced, though the quiet summer air 
Stirs with the bruit of battles, and each 

dawn 
Wakes from its starry silence to the hum 
Of many gathering armies. Still, 
In that we sometimes hear. 
Upon the Northern winds, the voice of woe 
Not wholly drowned in triumph, though I 

know 
The end must crown us, and a few brief 

years 
Dry all our tears, 



3i6 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



I may not sing too gladly. To Thy will 

Resigned, O Lord ! we cannot all forget 

That there is much even Victory must re- 
gret. 

And, therefore, not too long 

From the great burthen of our country's 
wrong 

Delay our just release ! 

And, if it may be, save 

These sacred fields of peace 

From stain of patriot or of hostile blood ! 

Oh, help us, Lord ! to roll the crimson flood 

Back on its course, and, while our banners 
wing 

Northward, strike with us ! till the Goth 
shall cling 

To his own blasted altar-stones, and crave 

Mercy; and we shall grant it, and dictate 

The lenient future of his fate 

There, where some rotting ships and crum- 
bling quays 

Shall one day mark the Port which ruled 
the Western seas. 



OUATORZAIN 

Most men know love but as a part of life; 
They hide it in some corner of the breast, 
Even from themselves; and only when they 

rest 
In the brief pauses of that daily strife, 
* Wherewith the world might else be not so 

rife. 
They draw it forth (as one draws forth a 

toy 
To soothe some ardent, kiss-exacting boy) 
And hold it up to sister, child, or wife. 
Ah me ! why may not love and life be one ? 
Why walk we thus alone, when by our side, 
Love, like a visible god, might be our 

guide ? 
How would the marts grow noble ! and the 

street, 
Worn like a dungeon-floor by weary feet, 
Seem then a golden court-way of the Sun ! 



CHARLESTON 

Calm as that second summer which pre- 
cedes 

The first fall of the snow, 
In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds, 

The city bides the foe. 



As yet, behind their ramparts, stern and 
proud, 

Her bolted thunders sleep, — 
Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud, 

Looms o'er the solemn deep. 

No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scaur 

To guard the holy strand; 
But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war 

Above the level sand. 

And down the dunes a thousand guns lie 
couched, 

Unseen, beside the flood, — 
Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched. 

That wait and watch for blood. 

Meanwhile, through streets still echoing 
with trade, 
Walk grave and thoughtful men. 
Whose hands may one day wield the pa- 
triot's blade 
As lightly as the pen. 

And maidens, with such eyes as would 
grow dim 
Over a bleeding hound. 
Seem each one to have caught the strength 
of him 
Whose sword she sadly bound. 

Thus girt without and garrisoned at home. 

Day patient following day. 
Old Charleston looks from roof and spire 
and dome, 

Across her tranquil bay. 

Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon 
lands 

And spicy Indian ports, 
Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands. 

And summer to her courts. 

But still, along yon dim Atlantic line, 

The only hostile smoke 
Creeps like a harmless mist above the 
brine. 

From some frail floating oak. 

Shall the spring dawn, and she, still clad 
in smiles. 
And with an unscathed brow. 
Rest in the strong arms of her palm« 
crowned isles. 
As fair and free as now ? 



TIMROD — HAYNE 



317 



We know not; in the temple of the Fates 

God has inscribed her doom: 
And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits 

The triumph or the tomb. 

April, 1863. 

AT MAGNOLIA CEMETERY 

Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, 
Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause; 

Though yet no marble column craves 
The pilgrim here to pause. 

In seeds of laurel in the earth 

The blossom of your fame is blown. 

And somewhere, waiting for its birth. 
The shaft is in the stone ! 



Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years 

Which keep in trust your storied 
tombs. 

Behold ! your sisters bring their tears. 
And these memorial blooms. 

Small tributes ! but your shades will 
smile 

More proudly on these wreaths to-day, 
Than when some cannon-moulded pile 

Shall overlook this bay. 

Stoop, angels, hither from the skies ! 

There is no holier spot of ground 
Than where defeated valor lies, 

By mourning beauty crowned. 
Charleston, 1867, 



5paul ]^amilton i^apne 



ASPECTS OF THE PINES 

Tall, sombre, grim, against the morning 
sky 
They rise, scarce touched by melancholy 
airs, 
Which stir the fadeless foliage dream- 
fully. 
As if from realms of mystical despairs. 

Tall, sombre, grim, they stand with dusky 
gleams 
Brightening to gold within the wood- 
land's core. 
Beneath the gracious noontide's tranquil 
beams, — 
But the weird winds of morning sigh no 
more. 

A stillness, strange, divine, ineffable, 

Broods round and o'er them in the wind's 
surcease. 
And on each tinted copse and shimmering 
dell 
Rests the mute rapture of deep hearted 
peace. 

Last, sunset comes — the solemn joy and 
might 
Borne from the west when cloudless day 
declines — 



Low, flute-like breezes sweep the waves of 
light. 
And, lifting dark green tresses of the 
pines. 

Till every lock is luminous, gently float, 
Fraught with hale odors up the heavens 
afar, 
To faint when twilight on her virginal 
throat 
Wears for a gem the tremulous vesper 
star. 



VICKSBURG 

For sixty days and upwards, 

A storm of shell and shot 
Rained round us in a flaming shower, 

But stili we faltered not. 
" If the noble city perish," 

Our grand young leader said, 
" Let the only walls the foe shall scale 

Be ramparts of the dead ! " 

For sixty days and upwards, 
The eye of heaven waxed dim; 

And even throughout God's holy morn. 
O'er Christian prayer and hymn, 

Arose a hissing tumult. 
As if the fiends in air 



3i8 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Strove to engulf the voice of faith 
In the shrieks of their despair. 

There was wailing in the houses, 

There was trembling on the marts, 
While the tempest raged and thundered. 

Mid the silent thrill of hearts; 
But the Lord, our shield, was with us, 

And ere a month had sped. 
Our very women walked the streets 

With scarce one throb of dread. 

And the little children gambolled, 

Their faces purely raised, 
Just for a wondering moment. 

As the huge bombs whirled and blazed ; 
Then turned with silvery laughter 

To the sports which children love. 
Thrice - mailed in the sweet, instinctive 
thought 

That the good God watched above. 

Yet the hailing bolts fell faster. 

From scores of flame-clad ships. 
And about us, denser, darker. 

Grew the conflict's wild eclipse, 
Till a solid cloud closed o'er us. 

Like a type of doom and ire. 
Whence shot a thousand quivering tongues 

Of forked and vengeful fire. 

But the unseen hands of angels 

Those death-shafts warned aside, 
And the dove of heavenly mercy 

Ruled o'er the battle tide; 
In the houses ceased the wailing. 

And through the war-scarred marts 
The people strode, with step of hope. 

To the music in their hearts. 



BETWEEN THE SUNKEN SUN 
AND THE NEW MOON 

Between the sunken sun and the new 

moon, 
I stood in fields through which a rivulet 

ran 
With scarce perceptible motion, not a span 
Of its smooth surface trembling to the tune 
Of sunset breezes: " O delicious boon," 
I cried, " of quiet ! wise is Nature's plan. 
Who, in her realm, as in the soul of man, 
Alternates storm with calm, and the loud 

noon 



With dewy evening's soft and sacred lull: 

Happy the heart that keeps its twilight 
hour. 

And, in the depths of heavenly peace re- 
clined, 

Loves to commune with thoughts of tender 
power; 

Thoughts that ascend, like angels beauti- 
ful, 

A shining Jacob's ladder of the mind." 



A STORM IN THE DISTANCE 

I SEE the cloud-born squadrons of the gale. 
Their lines of rain like glittering spears 
deprest. 
While all the affrighted land grows darkly 
pale 
In flashing charge on earth's half- 
shielded breast. 

Sounds like the rush of trampling columns 
float 
From that fierce conflict; volleyed thun- 
ders peal. 
Blent with the maddened wind's wild bugle- 
note ; 
The lightnings flash, the solid woodlands 
reel ! 

Ha ! many a foliaged guardian of the 
height. 
Majestic pine or chestnut, riven and bare. 
Falls in the rage of that aerial fight. 

Led by the Prince of all the Powers of 
air ! 

Vast boughs like shattered banners hur- 
tling fly 
Down the thick tumult: while, like emer^ 
aid snow. 
Millions of orphaned leaves make wild the 
sky. 
Or drift in shuddering helplessness be- 
low. 

Still, still, the levelled lances of the 
rain 
At earth's half-shielded breast take glit- 
tering aim ; 
All space is rife with fury, racked with 
pain. 
Earth bathed in vapor, and heaven rent 
by flame ! 



PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 



319 



At last the cloud-battalions through long 
rifts 
Of luminous mists retire: — the strife is 
done, 
And earth once more her wounded beauty 
lifts, 
To meet the healing kisses of the sun. 



THE ROSE AND THORN 

She 's loveliest of the festal throng 
In delicate form and Grecian face, — 

A beautiful, incarnate song, 

A marvel of harmonious grace. 

And yet I know the truth I speak: 

From those gay groups she stands apart, 

A rose upon her tender cheek, 
A thorn within her heart. 

Though bright her eyes' bewildering 
gleams. 
Fair tremulous lips and shining hair, 
A something born of mournful dreams 

Breathes round her sad enchanted air; 
No blithesome thoughts at hide and seek 

From out her dimples smiling start; 
If still the rose be on her cheek, 
A thorn is in her heart. 

Young lover, tossed 'twixt hope and fear, 
Your whispered vow and yearning eyes 
Yon marble Clytie pillared near 

Could move as soon to soft replies; 
Or, if she thrill at words you speak. 

Love's memory prompts the sudden 
start ; 
The rose has paled upon her cheek, 
The thorn has pierced her heart. 



A LITTLE WHILE I FAIN WOULD 
LINGER YET 

A LITTLE while (my life is almost set !) 
I fain would pause along the downward 

way. 
Musing an hour in this sad sunset-ray, 
While, Sweet ! our eyes with tender tears 

are wet: 
A little hour I fain would linger yet. 

A little while I fain would linger yet. 
All for love's sake, for love that cannot 
tire ; 



Though fervid youth be dead, with youth's 
desire. 
And hope has faded to a vague regret, 
A little while I fain would linger yet. 

A little while I fain would linger here: 
Behold ! who knows what strange, mys- 
terious bars 
'Twixt souls that love may rise in other 
stars ? 
Nor can love deem the face of death is 

fair: 
A little while I still would linger here. 

A little while I yearn to hold thee fast. 
Hand locked in hand, and loyal heart to 

heart ; 
(O pitying Christ ! those woeful words, 
" We part ! ") 
So ere the darkness fall, the light be past, 
A little while I fain would hold thee fast. 

A little while, when light and twilight 

meet, — 
Behind, our broken years; before, the 

deep 
Weird wonder of the last unfathomed 

sleep, — 
A little while I still would clasp thee. 

Sweet, 
A. little while, when night and twilight 

meet. 

A little while I fain would linger here ; 
Behold ! who knows what soul-dividing 

bars 
Earth's faithful loves may part in other 
stars ? 
Nor can love deem the face of death is fair: 
A little while I still would linger here. 



IN HARBOR 

I THINK it is over, over, 

I think it is over at last : 
Voices of foemen and lover. 
The sweet and the bitter have passed: 
Life, like a tempest of ocean 
Hath outblown its ultimate blast: 
There 's but a faint sobbing seaward 
While the calm of the tide deepens lee- 
ward, 
And behold ! like the welcoming quiver 
Of heart-pulses throbbed through the river, 



320 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Those lights Id the harbor at last, 
The heavenly harbor at last ! 

I feel it is over ! over ! 

For the winds and the waters sur- 
cease; 
Ah, few were the days of the rover 

That smiled in the beauty of peace, 
And distant and dim was the omen 
That hinted redress or release ! 
From the ravage of life, and its riot. 
What marvel I yearn for the quiet 

Which bides in the harbor at last, — 
For the lights, with their welcoming quiver 
That throbs through the sanctified river, 



Which girdle the harbor at last, 
This heavenly harbor at last ? 

I know it is over, over, 

I know it is over at last ! 
Down sail ! the sheathed anchor uncover, 
For the stress of the voyage has passed: 
Life, like a tempest of ocean. 

Hath outbreathed its ultimate blast; 
There 's but a faint sobbing seaward. 
While the calm of the tide deepens leeward; 
And behold ! like the welcoming quiver 
Of heart-pulses throbbed through the river, 

Those lights in the harbor at last, 

The heavenly harbor at last ! 



oBmilp E^ichtiijSfon* 



LIFE 



Our share of night to bear, 
Our share of morning. 
Our blank in bliss to fill, 
Our blank in scorning. 

Here a star, and there a star, 
Some lose their way. 
Here a mist, and there a mist, 
Afterwards — day ! 

A BOOK 

He ate and drank the precious words. 
His spirit grew robust; 
He knew no more that he was poor, 
Nor that his frame was dust. 
He danced along the dingy days. 
And this bequest of wings 
Was but a book. What liberty 
A loosened spirit brings ! 

UTTERANCE • 

I FOUND the phrase to every thought 
I ever had, but one; 
And that defies me, — as a hand 
Did try to chalk the sun 



To races nurtured in the dark: — 
How would your own begin ? 
Can blaze be done in cochineal, 
Or noon in mazarin ? 



WITH FLOWERS 

If recollecting were forgetting, 

Then I remember not; 
And if forgetting, recollecting. 

How near I had forgot ! 
And if to miss were merry. 

And if to mourn were gay, 
How very blithe the fingers 

That gathered these to-day ! 

PARTING 

My life closed twice before its close; 

It yet remains to see 
If Immortality unveil 

A third event to me, 

So huge, so hopeless to conceive, 
As these that twice befell: 

Parting is all we know of heaven, 
And all we need of hell. ' 

CALLED BACK 

Just lost when I was saved ! 

Just felt the world go by ! 

Just girt me for the onset with eternity, 

When breath blew back. 

And on the other side 

I heard recede the disappointed tide ! 



Therefore, as one returned, I feel, 
Odd secrets of the line to tell ! 
Some sailor, skirting foreign shores, 
1 See, also, p. 587. 



EMILY DICKINSON 



321 



Some pale reporter from the awful doors 


NATURE 


Before the seal ! 






THE WAKING YEAR 


Next time, to stay ! 




Next time, the things to see 


A LADY red upon the hill 


By ear unheard, 


Her annual secret keeps ; 


Unscrutinized by eye. 


A lady white within the field 




In placid lily sleeps ! 


Next time, to tarry. 




While the ages steal, — 


The tidy breezes with their brooms 


Slow tramp the centuries, 


Sweep vail, and hill, and tree ! 


And the cycles wheel. 


Prithee, my pretty housewives ! 




Who may expected be ? 


LOVE 


The neighbors do not yet suspect ! 




The iwoods exchange a smile, — 


CHOICE 


Orchard, and buttercup, and bird, 


Of all the souls that stand create 


In such a little while ! 


I have elected one. 




When sense from spirit files away, 


And yet how still the landscape stands, 


And subterfuge is clone; 


How nonchalant the wood, 




As if the resurrection 


When that which is and that which was 


Were nothing very odd ! 


Apart, intrinsic, stand. 




And this brief tragedy of flesh 


AUTUMN 


Is shifted like a sand; 






The morns are meeker than they were^ 


When figures show their royal front 


The nuts are getting brown; 


And mists are carved away, — 


The berry's cheek is plumper. 


Behold the atom I preferred 


The rose is out of town. 


To all the lists of clay ! 


The maple wears a gayer scarf, 




The field a scarlet gown. 


CONSTANT 


Lest I should be old-fashioned, 
I '11 put a trinket on. 


Alter ? When the hills do. 




Falter ? When the sun 




Question if his glory 


BECLOUDED 


Be the perfect one. 


The sky is low, the clouds are mean. 




A travelling flake of snow 


Surfeit ? When the daffodil 


Across a barn or through a rut 


Doth of the dew: 


Debates if it will go. 


Even as herself, friend ! 




I will" of you ! 


A narrow wind complains all day 




How someone treated him: 


HEART, WE WILL FORGET HIM 


Nature, like us, is sometimes caught 
Without her diadem. 


Heart, we will forget him ! 




You and I, to-night ! 
You may forget the warmth he gave. 


FRINGED GENTIAN 


I will forget the light. 


God made a little gentian; 




It tried to be a rose 


When you have done, pray tell me. 


And failed, and all the summer laughed: 


That I my thoughts may dim; 


But J4ist before the snows 


Haste ! lest while you 're lagging. 


There came a purple creature 


I may remember him ! 


That ravished all the hill; 



i 
322 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



And summer hid her forehead, 
And mockery was still. 
The frosts were her condition; 
The Tyrian would not come 
Until the North evoked it: — 
" Creator ! shall I bloom ? " 



TIME AND ETERNITY 

TOO LATE 

Delayed till she had ceased to know, 
Delayed till in its vest of snow 

Her loving bosom lay: 
An hour behind the fleeting breath, 
Later by just an hour than death, — 

Oh, lagging yesterday ! 

Could she have guessed that it would be; 
Could but a crier of the glee 

Have climbed the distant hill; 
Had not the bliss so slow a pace, — 
Who knows but this surrendered face 

Were undefeated still ? 

Oh, if there may departing be 
Any forgot by victory 

In her imperial round. 
Show them this meek apparelled thing. 
That could not stop to be a king. 

Doubtful if it be crowned ! 

CHARTLESS 

I NEVER saw a moor, 

I never saw the sea; 

Yet know I how the heather looks, 

And what a wave must be. 

I never spoke with God, 
Nor visited in heaven; 
Yet certain am I of the spot 
As if the chart were given. 

THE BATTLE-FIELD 

They dropped like flakes, they dropped like 
stars. 

Like petals from a rose. 
When suddenly across the June 

A wind with finger goes. 

They perished in the seamless grass, — 

No eye could find the place ; 
But God on his repealless list 

Can summon every face. 



VANISHED 

She died, — this was the way she died ; 
And when her breath was done, 
Took up her simple wardrobe 
And started for the sun. 

Her little figure at the gate 
The angels must have spied, 
Since I could never find her 
Upon the mortal side. 

THAT SUCH HAVE DIED 

That such have died enables us 

The tranquiller to die ; 
That such have lived, certificate 

For immortality. 

THE SECRET 

I HAVE not told my garden yet, 
Lest that should conquer me ; 
I have not quite the strength now 
To break it to the bee. 

I will not name it in the street, 
For shops would stare, that I, 
So shy, so very ignorant. 
Should have the face to die. 

The hillsides must not know it, 
Where I have rambled so. 
Nor tell the loving forests 
The day that I shall go, 

Nor lisp it at the table. 
Nor heedless by the way 
Hint that within the riddle 
One will walk to-day ! 

ETERNITY 

On this wondrous sea, 
Sailing silently, 

Ho ! pilot, ho ! 
Knowest thou the shore 
Where no breakers roar. 

Where the storm is o'er ? 

In the silent west 
Many sails at rest. 

Their anchors fast; 
Thither I pilot thee, — ■ 
Land, ho ! Eternity ! 

Ashore at last ! 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



323 



Will Wallace f$an\t^ 



ADONAIS 



Shall we meet no more, my love, at the 
binding of the sheaves, 
In the happy harvest-fields, as the sun 
sinks low, 

When the orchard paths are dim with the 
drift of fallen leaves. 

And the reapers sing together, in the mel- 
low, misty eves : 
O, happy are the apples when the south 
winds blow ! 

Love met us in the orchard, ere the corn 

had gathered plume, — 
O, happy are the apples when the south 

winds blow ! 
Sweet as summer days that die when the 

months are in the bloom. 
And the peaks are ripe with sunset, like 

the tassels of the broom. 
In the happy harvest-fields as the sun 

sinks low. 

Sweet as summer days that die, leafing 

sweeter each to each, — 
O, happy are the apples when the south 

winds blow ! 
Ail the heart was full of feeling: love had 

ripened into speech, 
Like the sap that turns to nectar in the 

velvet of the peach, 
In the happy harvest-fields as the sun 

sinks low. 

Sweet as summer days that die at the rip- 
ening of the corn, — 
0, happy are the apples when the south 
winds blow ! 

Sweet as lovers' fickle oaths, sworn to 
faithless maids forsworn, 

When the musty orchard breathes like a 
mellow drinking-horn, 
Over happy harvest-fields as the sun 
sinks low. 

Love left us at the dying of the mellow 
autumn eves, — 
O, happy are the apples when the south 
winds blow I 



When the skies are ripe and fading, like 
the colors of the leaves, 

And the reapers kiss and part, at the bind- 
ing of the sheaves. 
In the happy harvest-fields as the sun 
sinks low. 

Then the reapers gather home, from the 

gray and misty meres ; — 
O, happy are the apples when the south 

winds blow ! 
Then the reapers gather home, and they 

bear upon their spears, 
One whose face is like the moon, fallen 

gray among the spheres. 
With the daylight's curse upon it, as the 

sun sinks low. 

Faint as far-off bugles blowing, soft and 

low the reapers sung ; — 
O, happy are the apples when the south 

winds blow ! 
Sweet as summer in the blood, when the 

heart is ripe and young. 
Love is sweetest in the dying, like the 

sheaves he lies among, 
In the happy harvest-fields as the sun 

sinks low. 

THE STAB 

On the road, the lorrely road. 

Under the cold white moon. 
Under the ragged trees he strode ; 
He whistled and shifted his weary load — 

Whistled a foolish tune. 

There was a step timed with his own, 

A figure that stooped and bowed — 
A cold, white blade that gleamed and shone. 
Like a splinter of daylight downward 
thrown — 
And the moon went behind a cloud. 

But the moon came out so broad and good, 

The barn-fowl woke and crowed; 

Then roughed his feathers in drowsy mood, 

And the brown owl called to his mate in 

the wood. 

That a dead man lay on the road. 



324 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 






CORONATION 

At the king's gate the subtle noon 
Wove filmy yellow nets of sun; 
Into the drowsy snare too soon 
The guards fell one by one. 

Through the king's gate, unquestioned then, 
A beggar went, and laughed, "This 
brings 
Me chance at last, to see if men 
Fare better, being kings." 

The king sat bowed beneath his crown, 
Propping his face with listless hand, 
Watching the hour-glass sifting down 
Too slow its shining sand. 

" Poor man, what wouldst thou have of 
me?" 
The beggar turned, and, pitying. 
Replied like one in dream, " Of thee, 
Nothing. I want the king." 

Uprose the king, and from his head 

Shook off the crown and threw it by. 
" O man, thou must have known," he 
said, 
*' A greater king than I." 

Through all the gates, unquestioned then. 

Went king and beggar hand in hand. 
Whispered the king, " Shall I know when 
Before His throne I stand ? " 

The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste 

Were wiping from the king's hot brow 
The crimson lines the crown had traced. 
" This is his presence now." 

At the king's gate, the crafty noon 

Unwove its yellow nets of sun; 
Out of their sleep in terror soon 
The guards waked one by one. 

" Ho here ! Ho there ! Has no man 
seen 
The king ? " The cry ran to and fro; 
Beggar and king, they laughed, I ween, 
The laugh that free men know. 



On the king's gate the moss grew gray; 
The king came not. They called him 
dead; 
And made his eldest son one day 
Slave in his father's stead. 

MORN 

In what a strange bewilderment do we 
Awake each morn from out the brief night's 

sleep. 
Our struggling consciousness doth grope 

and creep 
Its slow way back, as if it could not free 
Itself from bonds unseen. Then Memory, 
Like sudden light, outflashes from its deep 
The joy or grief which it had last to keep 
For us; and by the joy or grief we see 
The new day dawneth like the yesterday; 
We are unchanged; our life the same we 

knew 
Before. I wonder if this is the way 
We wake from death's short sleep, to 

struggle through 
A brief bewilderment, and in dismay 
Behold our life unto our old life true. 

EMIGRAVIT 

With sails full set, the ship her anchor 

weighs. 
Strange names shine out beneath her figure 

head. 
What glad farewells with eager eyes are 

said ! 
What cheer for him who goes, and him who 

stays ! 
Fair skies , rich lands, new homes, and un- 
tried days 
Some go to seek : the rest but wait instead. 
Watching the way wherein their comrades 

led, 
Until the next stanch ship her flag doth raise. 
Who knows what myriad colonies there are 
Of fairest fields, and rich, undreamed-of 

gains 
Thick planted in the distant shining plains 
Which we call sky because they lie so far ? 
Oh, write of me, not " Died in bitter pains," 
But " Emigrated to another star ! " 



"H. H." 



325 



POPPIES IN THE WHEAT 

Along Ancona's hills the shimmering heat, 
A tropic tide of air, with ebb and flow 
Bathes all the fields of wheat until they glow 
Like flashing seas of green, which toss and 

beat 
Around the vines. The poppies lithe and 

fleet 
Seem running, fiery torchmen, to and fro 
To mark the shore. The farmer does not 

know 
That they are there. He walks with heavy 

feet. 
Counting the bread and wine by autumn's 

gain. 
But I, — I smile to think that days remain 
Perhaps to me in which, though bread be 

sweet 
No more, and red wine warm my blood in 

vain, 
I shall be glad remembering how the fleet, 
Lithe poppies ran like torchmen with the 

wheat. 

A LAST PRAYER 

Father, I scarcely dare to pray. 

So clear I see, now it is done, 
That I have wasted half my day, 

And left my work but just begun; 

So clear I see that things I thought 
Were right or harmless were a sin; 

So clear I see that I have sought. 
Unconscious, selfish aims to win; 

So clear I see that I have hurt 

The souls I might have helped to save; 

That I have slothful been, inert, 
Deaf to the calls thy leaders gave. 

In outskirts of thy kingdoms vast, 
Father, the humblest spot give me; 

Set me the lowliest task thou hast; 
Let me repentant work for thee ! 

HABEAS CORPUS 

My body, eh ? Friend Death, how now ? 

Why all this tedious pomp of writ ? 
Thou hast reclaimed it sure and slow 

For half a century, bit by bit. 

In faith thou knowest more to-day 
Than I do, where it can be found ! 



This shriveled lump of sufl:'ering clay, 
To which I now am chained and bound, 

Has not of kith or kin a trace 
To the good body once I bore ; 

Look at this shrunken, ghastly face: 
Didst ever see that face before ? 

Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art; 

Thy only fault thy lagging gait, 
Mistaken pity in thy heart 

For timorous ones that bid thee wait 

Do quickly all thou hast to do, 

Nor 1 nor mine will hindrance make; 

I shall be free when thou art through; 
I grudge thee naught that thou must 
take ! 

Stay ! I have lied : I grudge thee one. 
Yes, two I grudge thee at this last, — 

Two members which have faithful done 
My will and bidding in the past. 

I grudge thee this right hand of mine; 

I grudge thee this quick-beating heart; 
They never gave me coward sign. 

Nor played me once a traitor's part. 

I see now why in olden days 

Men in barbaric love or hate 
Nailed enemies' hands at wild crossways. 

Shrined leaders' hearts in costly state: 

The symbol, sign, and instrument 

Of each soul's purpose, passion, strife, 

Of fires in which are poured and spent 
Their all of love, their all of life. 

O feeble, mighty human hand ! 

fragile, dauntless human heart ! 
The universe holds nothing planned 

With such sublime, transcendent art ! 

Yes, Death, I own I grudge thee mine 
Poor little hand, so feeble now; 

Its wrinkled palm, its altered line. 
Its veins so pallid and so slow — 

( Unfinished here.) 

Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art ; 

1 shall be free when thou art through. 
Take all there is — take hand and heart: 

There must be somewhere work to do. 
Her last poem : 1 August, 1885. 



326 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



f ranfelin 25fnjamm ^^anbom 

SAMUEL HOAR ARIANA i 



A YEAR ago how often did I meet 

Under these elms, once more in sober bloom, 

Thy tall, sad figure pacing down the 
street, — 

But now the robin sings above thy tomb. 

Thy name on other shores may ne'er be 
known, 

Though austere Rome no graver Consul 
knew; 

But Massachusetts her true son doth own: 

Out of her soil thy hardy virtues grew. 

She loves the man who chose the con- 
quered cause, 

The upright soul that bowed to God 
alone, 

The clean hand that upheld her equal 
laws, 

The old religion, never yet outgrown, 

The cold demeanor and warm heart be- 
neath. 

The simple grandeur of thy life and death. 



Sweet saint ! whose rising dawned upon 

the sight 
Like fair Aurora chasing mists away, 
Our ocean billows, and thy western height 
Gave back reflections of the tender ray. 
Sparkling and smiling as night turned to 

day: — 
Ah ! whither vanished that celestial light ? 
Suns rise and set, Monadnoc's amethyst 
Year-long above the sullen cloud appears, 
Daily the waves our summer strand have 

kissed. 
But thou returnest not with days and years : 
Or is it thine, yon clear and beckoning 

star. 
Seen o'er the hills that guarded once thy 

home ? 
Dost guide thy friend's free steps that 

widely roam 
Toward that far country where his wishes 

are ? 



3locl 2^cnton 



AT CHAPPAQUA 



His cherished woods are mute. The stream 

glides down 
The hill as when I knew it years ago ; 
The dark, pine arbor with its priestly gown 
Stands hushed, as if our grief it still would 

show; 
The silver springs are cupless, and the 

flow 
Of friendly feet no more bereaves the grass. 
For he is absent who was wont to pass 
Along this wooded path. His axe's blow 
No more disturbs the impertinent bole or 

bough ; 
Nor moves his pen our heedless nation 

now. 
Which, sworn to justice, stirred the people 

so. 
In some far world his much-loved face 

must glow 



With rapture still. This breeze once fanned 

his brow. 
This is the peaceful Mecca all men know I 

THE SCARLET TANAGER 

A BALL of fire shoots through the tamarack 
In scarlet splendor, on voluptuous wings; 
Delirious joy the pyrotechnist brings. 
Who marks for us high summer's almanac. 
How instantly the red-coat hurtles back ! 
No fiercer flame has flashed beneath the sky. 
Note now the rapture in his cautious eye, 
The conflagration lit along his track. 
Winged soul of beauty, tropic in desire. 
Thy love seems alien in our northern zone; 
Thou giv'st to our green lands a burst of fire 
And callest back the fables we disown. 
The hot equator thou mightst well inspire, 
Or stand above some Eastern monarch's 
throne. 



1 See BioGRAFHicAL Note, p. 819. 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD —DIVISION I 



327 



45lt5a6ctt) %htt^ m\m 



(" FLORENCE PERCY ") 



SEA-BIRDS 



LONESOME sea-gull, floating far 
Over the ocean's icy waste, 

Aimless and wide thy wanderings are, 
Forever vainly seeking rest: — 
Where is thy mate, and where thy 
nest ? 

'Twixt wintry sea and wintry sky, 

Cleaving the keen air with thy breast, 

Thou sailest slowly, solemnly; 

No fetter on thy wing is pressed: — 
Where is thy mate, and where thy 
nest? 

restless, homeless human soul, 

Following for aye thy nameless quest, 

The gulls float, and the billows roll; 
Thou watchest still, and questionest : — 
Where is thy mate, and where thy 
nest? 



"MY DEARLING" 

My Dearling ! — thus, in days long fled. 
In spite of creed and court and queen. 
King Henry wrote to Anne Boleyn, — 

The dearest pet name ever said, 

And dearly purchased, too, I ween ! 

Poor child ! she played a losing game: 
She won a heart, — so Henry said, — 
But ah, the price she gave instead ! 

Men's hearts, at best, are but a name: 
She paid for Henry's with her head ! 

You count men's hearts as something 
worth ? 
Not I: were I a maid unwed, 
I 'd rather have my own fair head 

Than all the lovers on the earth. 
Than all the hearts that ever bled ! 

" My Dearling ! " with a love most true, 
Having no fear of creed or queen, 
I breathe that name my prayers between; 

Bat it shall never bring to you 
The hapless fate of Anne Boleyn ! 



THE LAST LANDLORD 

You who dread the cares and labors 
Of the tenant's annual quest. 
You who long for peace and rest. 

And the quietest of neighbors, 
You may find them, if you will. 
In the city on the hill. 

One indulgent landlord leases 
All the pleasant dwellings there; 
He has tenants everywhere, — 

Every day the throng increases ; 
None may tell their number, yet 
He has mansions still to let. 

Never presses he for payment; 

Gentlest of all landlords he; 

And his numerous tenantry 
Never lack for food or raiment. 

Sculptured portal, grassy roof, 
All alike are trouble-proof. 

Of the quiet town's frequenters, 

Never one is ill at ease; 

There are neither locks nor keys, 
Yet no robber breaks or enters; 

Not a dweller bolts his door, 

Fearing for his treasure-store. 

Never sound of strife or clamor 
Troubles those who dwell therein; 
Never toil's distracting din. 

Stroke of axe, nor blow of hammer; 
Crimson clover sheds its sweets 
Even in the widest streets. 

Never tenant old or younger 

Suffers illness or decline; 

There no suffering children pine; 
There comes never want nor hunger; 

W^oe and need no longer reign; 
Poverty forgets its pain. 

Turmoil and unrest and hurry 
Stay forevermore outside; 
By the hearts which there abide 

Wrong, privation, doubt, and worry 
Are forgotten quite, or seem 
Only like a long-past dream. 



328 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Never slander nor detraction 

Enters there, and never heard 

Is a sharp or cruel word; 
No unworthy thought or action, 

Purpose or intent of ill 

Knows the city on the hill. 

There your mansion never waxes 

Out of date, nor needs repairs ; 

There intrude no sordid cares; 
There are neither rent nor taxes; 

And no vexed and burdened brain 

Reckons either loss or gain. 

Wanderers, tired with long endeavor. 
You whom, since your being's dawn. 
With the stern command " Move on ! " 

Ruthless Fate has tracked forever, 
Here at last your footsteps stay 
With no dread of moving-day ! 



IN A GARRET 

This realm is sacred to the silent past; 
Within its drowsy shades are treasures 
rare 
Of dust and dreams; the years are long 
since last 
A stranger's footfall pressed the creak- 
ing stair. 

This room no housewife's tidy hand dis- 
turbs ; 
And here, like some strg,nge presence, 
ever clings 
A homesick smell of dry forgotten herbs, — 
A musty odor as of mouldering things. 

Here stores of withered roots and leaves 
repose. 
For fancied virtues prized in days of 
yore. 
Gathered with thoughtful care, mayhap by 
those 
Whose earthly ills are healed forever 
more. 

Here shy Arachne winds her endless thread. 
And weaves her silken tapestry unseen, 

Veiling the rough-hewn timbers overhead, 
And looping gossamer festoons between. 

Along the low joists of the sloping roof. 
Moth-eaten garments hang, a gloomy row. 



Like tall fantastic ghosts, which stand 
aloof. 
Holding grim converse with the long 
ago. 

Here lie remembrancers of childish joys, — 
Old fairy-volumes, conned and conned 
again, 
A cradle, and a heap of battered toys. 
Once loved by babes who now are 
bearded men. 

Here, in the summer, at a broken pane. 
The yellow wasps come in, and buzz and 
build 
Among the rafters; wind and snow and 
rain 
All enter, as the seasons are fulfilled. 

This mildewed chest, behind the chimney, 
holds 
Old letters, stained and nibbled ; faintly 
show 
The faded phrases on the tattered folds 
Once kissed, perhaps, or tear-wet — who 
may know ? 

I turn a page like one who plans a crime, 
And lo! love's prophecies and sweet re- 
grets, 

A tress of chestnut hair, a love-lorn rhyme, 
And fragrant dust that once was violets. 

I wonder if the small sleek mouse, that 
shaped 
His winter nest between these time- 
stained beams. 
Was happier that his bed was lined and 
draped 
With the bright warp and woof of youth- 
ful dreams ? 

Here where the gray incessant spiders 
spin. 
Shrouding from view the sunny world 
outside, 
A golden bumblebee has blundered in 
And lost the way to liberty, and died. 

So the lost present drops into the past; 
So the warm living heart, that loves the 
light, 
Faints in the unresponsive darkness vast 
Which hides time's buried mysteries 
from sight. 



ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN — MARY ASHLEY TOWNSEND 329 



Why rob these shadows of their sacred 
trust? 
Let the thick cobwebs hide the day once 
more; 
Leave the dead years to silence and to 
dust, 
And close again the long unopened door. 

ROCK ME TO SLEEP 

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in 

your flight. 
Make me a child again just for to-night ! 
Mother, come back from the echoless shore, 
Take me again to your heart as of yore; 
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care. 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my 

hair; 
Over my slumbers your loving watch 

keep; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to 

sleep ! 

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the 

years ! 
I am so weary of toil and of tears, — 
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, — 
Take them, and give me my childhood 

again ! 
I have grown weary of dust and decay, — 
Weary of flinging my soul- wealth away; 
Weary of sowing for others to reap; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to 

sleep ! 

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, 
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you ! 
Many a summer the grass has grown green, 
Blossomed and faded, our faces between : 
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate 
pain, 



Long I to-night for your presence again. 
Come from the silence so long and so 

deep; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to 

sleep ! 

Over my heart, in the days that are flown. 
No love like mother-love ever has shone; 
No other worship abides and endures, — 
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours: 
None like a mother can charm away pain 
From the sick soul and the world-weary 

brain. 
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids 

creep; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to 

sleep ! 

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted 

with gold, 
Fall on your shoulders again as of old; 
Let it drop over my forehead to-night. 
Shading my faint eyes away from the light ; 
For with its suuuy-edged shadows once 

more 
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore ; 
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to 

sleep ! 

Mother, dear mother, the years have been 

long 
Since I last listened your lullaby song: 
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem 
Womanhood's years have been only a 

dream. 
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, 
With your light lashes just sweeping my 

face. 
Never hereafter to wake or to weep; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to 

sleep ! 



Sr^arp ^ll.sigkp €oton^ciit! 



SONNETS 

THE DEAD SINGER 

A poet's soul has sung its way to God; 
Has loosed its luminous wings from earthly 

thongs. 
And soared to join the imperishable 

throngs 



Whose feet the immaculate valleys long 
have trod. 

For him, the recompense; for us, the rod; 

And we to whom regretfulness belongs 

Crown our dead singer with bis own sweet 
songs. 

And roof his grave with love's remember- 
ing sod. 



33° 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



But yesterday, a beacon on the height; 
To-day, a sijleudor that has passed us by, — 
So, one by one into the morning light, 
Whilst yet late watchers gaze upon the 

sky 
And wonder what the heavens prophesy, 
The shining stars pass silently from sight ! 

VIRTUOSA 

As by the instrument she took her place, 
The expectant people, breathing sigh nor 

word. 
Sat hushed, while o'er the waiting ivory 

stirred 
Her supple hands with their suggestive 

grace. 
With sweet notes they began to interlace, 
And then with lofty strains their skill to 

I gird. 
Then loftier still, till all the echoes heard 
Entrancing harmonies float into space. 
She paused, and gaily trifled with the keys 
Until they laughed in wild delirium, 
Then, with rebuking fingers, from their 

glees 
She led them one by one till all grew dumb. 
And music seemed to sink upon its knees, 
A slave her touch could quicken or benumb. 

AT SET OF SUN 

A SCENT of guava-blossoms and the smell 

Of bruised grass beneath the tamarind- 
trees; 

The hurried humming of belated bees 

With pollen-laden thighs; far birds that 
tell 

With faint, last notes of night's approach- 
ing spell, 

While smoke of supper-fires the low sun 
sees 

Creep through the roofs of palm, and on 
the breeze 

Floats forth the message of the evening 
bell. 

Our footsteps pause, we look toward the 
west. 

And from my heart throbs out one fervent 
prayer : 

O love ! O silence ! ever to be thus, — 

A silence full of love and love its best. 

Till in our evening years we two shall 
share 

Together, side by side, life's Angelas ! 



DOWN THE BAYOU 

The cj^press swamp around me wraps its 

spell, 
With hushing sounds in moss-hung branches 

there, 
Like congregations rustling down to prayer, 
While Solitude, like some unsounded bell, 
Hangs full of secrets that it cannot tell. 
And leafy litanies on the humid air 
Intone themselves, and on the tree-trunks 

bare 
The scarlet lichen writes her rubrics well. 
The cypress-knees take on them marvellous 

shapes 
Of pygmy nuns, gnomes, goblins, witches, 

fays. 
The vigorous vine the withered gum-tree 

drapes, 
Across the oozy ground the rabbit plays. 
The moccasin to jungle depths escapes, 
And through the gloom the wild deer shyly 

gaze. 

RESERVE 

The sea tells something, but it tells not all 
That rests within its bosom broad and deep; 
The psalming winds that o'er the ocean 

sweep 
From compass point to compass point may 

call, ^ 

Nor half their music unto earth let fall; 
In far, ethereal spheres night knows to keep 
Fair stars whose rays to mortals never creep, 
And day uncounted secrets holds in thrall. 
He that is strong is stronger if he wear 
Something of self beyond all human clasp, — 
An inner self, behind unlifted folds 
Of life, which men can touch not nor lay 

bare: 
Thus great in what he gives the world to 

grasp, 
Is greater still in that which he withholds. 

HER HOROSCOPE 

'T IS true, one half of woman's life is hope 
And one half resignation. Between there 

lies 
Anguish of broken dreams, — doubt, dire 

surprise. 
And then is born the strength with all to 

cope. 
Unconsciously sublime, life's shadowed 

slope 



MARY ASHLEY TOWNSEND 



She braves ; the knowledge in her patient 

eyes 
Of all that love bestows and love denies, 
As writ in every woman's horoscope ! 
She lives, her heart-beats given to others' 

needs, 
Her hands, to lift for others on the way 
The burdens which their weariness forsook. 
She dies, an uncrowned doer of great deeds. 
Remembered ? Yes, as is for one brief 

day 
The rose one leaves in some forg:otteu book. 



EMBRYO 

I FEEL a poem in my heart to-night, 

A still thing growing, — 
As if the darkness to the outer light 

A song were owing: 
A something strangely vague, and sweet, 
and sad, 

Fair, fragile, slender; 
Not tearful, yet not daring to be glad, 

And oh, so tender ! 

It may not reach the outer world at all, 

Despite its growing; 
Upon a poem-bud such cold winds fall 

To blight its blowing. 
But, oh, whatever may the thing betide, 

Free life or fetter, 
My heart, just to have held it till it died. 

Will be the better ! 



r 



A GEORGIA VOLUNTEER 



Far up the lonely mountain-side 

My wandering footsteps led; 
The moss lay thick beneath my feet, 

The pine sighed overhead. 
The trace of a dismantled fort 

Lay in the forest nave. 
And in the shadow near my path 

I saw a soldier's grave. 

The bramble wrestled with the weed 

Upon the lowly mound; — 
The simple head-board, rudely writ. 

Had rotted to the ground; 
I raised it with a reverent hand. 

From dust its words to clear, . 
But time had blotted all but these — 

' ' A Georgia Volunteer ! " 



I saw the toad and scaly snake 

From tangled covert start, 
And hide themselves among the weeds 

Above the dead man's heart; 
But undisturbed, in sleep profound, 

Unheeding, there he lay; 
His coffin but the mountain soil, 

His shroud Confederate gray. 

I heard the Shenandoah roll 

Along the vale below, 
I saw the AUeghanies rise 

Towards the realms of snow. 
The " Valley Campaign " rose to mind — 

Its leader's name — and then 
I knew the sleeper had been one 

Of Stonewall Jackson's men. 

Yet whence he came, what lip shall say — ■ 

Whose tonglie will ever tell 
What desolated hearths and hearts 

Have been because he fell ? 
What sad-eyed maiden braids her hair, 

Her hair which he held dear ? 
One lock of which perchance lies with 

The Georgia Volunteer ! 

What mother, with long watching eyes, 

And white lips cold and dumb. 
Waits with appalling patience for 

Her darling boy to come ? 
Her boy ! whose mountain grave swells 
up 

But one of many a scar, 
Cut on the face of our fair land, 

By gory-handed war. 

What fights he fought, what wounds he 
wore. 

Are all unknown to fame ; 
Remember, on his lonely grave 

There is not e'en a name ! 
That he fought well and bravely too, 

And held his country dear, 
We know, else he had never been 

A Georgia Volunteer. 

He sleeps — what need to question now 

If he were wrong or right ? 
He knows, ere this, whose cause was just 

In God the Father's sight. 
He wields no warlike weapons now, 

Returns no f oeman's thrust — 
Who but a coward would revile 

An honest soldier's dust ? 



332 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Roll, Shenandoah, proudly roll, 
A down thy rocky glen, 

Above thee lies the grave of one 
Of Stonewall Jackson's men. 



Beneath the cedar and the pine. 

In solitude austere, 
Unknown, unnamed, forgotten, lies 

A Georgia Volunteer. 



3!ol)n mbee 



MUSIC AND MEMORY 

Enchantress, touch no more that strain ! 
I know not what it may contain. 
But in my breast such mood it wakes 
My very spirit almost breaks. 
Thoughts come from out some hidden realm 
Whose dim memorials overwhelm. 
Still bring not back the things I lost, — 
Still bringing all the pain they cost. 



A SOLDIER'S GRAVE 

Break not his sweet repose — 
Thou whom chance brings to this seques- 
tered ground. 
The sacred yard his ashes close, 
But go, thy way in silence; here no sound 
Is ever heard but from the murmuring 
pines. 
Answering the sea's near murmur; 
Nor ever here comes rumor 
Of anxious world or war's foregathering 
signs. 
The bleaching flag, the faded wreath, 
Mark the dead soldier's dust beneath. 
And show the death he chose; 
Forgotten save by her who weeps alone, 
And wrote his fameless name on this low 
stone : 
Break not his sweet repose. 



LANDOR 

Come, Walter Savage Landor, come this 

way; 
Step through the lintel low, with prose or 

verse, 
Tallest of latter men ; the early star 
And latest setting sun of great compeers; 
Through youth, through manhood, and ex- 

tremest age. 
Strong at the root, and at the top, blossoms 



Perennial. When culled the fields around 
Still calling up the great for wisest talk. 
Or singing clear some fresh, melodious 

stave. 
Not sickly-sweet, but like ripe autumn 

fruit, 
Of which not one but all the senses taste, 
And leave uncloyed the dainty appetite. 
Great English master of poetic art, 
In these late times that dandle every 

muse. 
Here mayst thou air all day thine elo- 
quence, 
And I a never weary listener. 
If thou at eve wilt sing one witty song. 
Or chant some line of cadenced, classic 
hymn. 



BOS'N HILL 

The wind blows wild on Bos'n Hill, 
Far off is heard the ocean's rote; 

Low overhead the gulls scream shrill, 
And homeward scuds each little boat. 

Then the dead Bos'n wakes in glee 
To hear the storm-king's song; 

And from the top of mast-pine tree 
He blows his whistle loud and long. 

The village sailors hear the call. 
Lips pale and eyes grow dim; 

Well know they, though he pipes them all, 
He means but one shall answer him. 

He pipes the dead up from their graves, 

Whose bones the tansy hides; 
He pipes the dead beneath the waves, 

Thej hear and cleave the rising tides. 

B':.t sailors know when next they sail 

Beyond the Hilltop's view. 
There 's one amongst them shall not fail 

To join the Bos'n's Crew. 



JOHN ALBEE— EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 



333 



DANDELIONS 

Now dandelions in the short, new grass, 
Through all their rapid stages daily pass; 
No bee yet visits them; each has its 

place, 
Still near enough to see the other's face. 
Unkenn'd the bud, so like the grass and 

ground 



In our old country yards where thickest 

found; 
Some morn it opes a little golden sun. 
And sets in its own west when day is done. 
In few days more 't is old and silvery gray. 
And though so close to earth it made its 

stay, 
Lo ! now it findeth wings and lightly flies, 
A spirit form, till on the sight it dies. 



€Dmunb Clarence ^tctiman 



SONG FROM A DRAMA 

Thou art mine, thou hast given thy word; 

Close, close in my arms thou art clinging; 

Alone for my ear thou art singing 
A song which no stranger hath heard: 
But afar from me yet, like a bird. 
Thy soul, in soine region unstirred. 

On its mystical circuit is winging. 

Thou art mine, I have made thee mine 
own; 
Henceforth we are mingled forever: 
But in vain, all in vain, I endeavor — 

Though round thee my garlands are thrown, 

And thou yieldest thy lips and thy zone — 

To master the spell that alone 
My hold on thy being can sever. 

Thou art mine, thou hast come unto me ! 
But thy soul, when I strive to be near 

it — 
The innermost fold of thy spirit — 
Is as far from my grasp, is as free, 
As the stars from the mountain-tops be. 
As the pearl, in the depths of the sea, 
From the portionless king that would 
wear it. 



THE DISCOVERER 

I HAVE a little kinsman 
Whose earthly summers are but three, 
And yet a voyager is he 
Greater than Drake or Frobisher, 
Than all their peers together ! 
He is a brave discoverer, 
And, far beyond the tether 
Of them who seek the frozen Pole, 
Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll. 



Ay, he has travelled whither 
A winged pilot steered his bark 
Through the portals of the dark, 
Past hoary Mimir's well and tree, 
Across the unknown sea. 

Suddenly, in his fair young hour, 
Came one who bore a flower, 
And laid it in his dimpled hand 

With this command: 
" Henceforth thou art a rover ! 
Thou must make a voyage far. 
Sail beneath the evening star. 
And a wondrous land discover." 
— With his sweet smile innocent 

Our little kinsman went. 

Since that time no word 

From the absent has been heard. 

Who can tell 
How he fares, or answer well 
What the little one has found 
Since he left us, outward bound ? 
Would that he might return ! 
Then should we learn 
From the pricking of his chart 
How the skyey roadways part. 
Hush ! does not the baby this way bring, 
To lay beside this severed curl, 

Some starry offering 
Of chrysolite or pearl ? 

Ah, no ! not so ! 
We may follow on his track. 

But he comes not back. 

And yet I dare aver 
He is a brave discoverer 
Of climes his elders do not k/ow. 
He has more learning than appears 
On the scroll of twice three thousand 
years, 



334 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



More than in the groves is taught, 

Or from furthest Indies brought; 

He knows, perchance, how spirits 

fare, — 
What shapes the angels wear, 
What is their guise and speech 
In those lands beyond our reach, — 
And his eyes behold 
Things that shall never, never be to mortal 

hearers told. 



PAN IN WALL STREET 

Just where the Treasury's marble front 

Looks over Wall Street's mingled na- 
tions ; 
Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont 

To throng for trade and last quotations; 
Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold 

Outrival, in the ears of people, 
The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled 

From Trinity's undaunted steeple, — 

Even there I heard a strange, wild strain 

Sound high above the modern clamor. 
Above the cries of greed and gain. 

The curbstone war, the auction's ham- 
mer; 
And swift, on Music's misty ways, 

It led, from all this strife for millions, 
To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days 

Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians. 

And as it stilled the multitude. 

And yet more joyous rose, and shriller, 
I saw the minstrel, where he stood 

At ease against a Doric pillar: 
One hand a droning organ played. 

The other held a Pan's-pipe (fashioned 
Like those of old) to lips that made 

The reeds give out that strain im- 
passioned. 

'T was Pan himself had wandered here 

A-strolling through this sordid city. 
And piping to the civic ear 

The prelude of some pastoral ditty! 
The demigod had crossed the seas, — 

From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and 
. satyr, 
And Syracnsan times, — to these 

Far shores and twenty centuries later. 



A ragged cap was on his head ; 

But — hidden thus — there was no 
doubting 
That, all with crispy locks o'erspread. 
His gnarled horns were somewhere 
sprouting; 
His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes, 

Were crossed, as on some frieze you see 
them, 
And trousers, patched of divers hues. 
Concealed his crooked shanks beneath 
them. 

He filled the quivering reeds with sound, 

And o'er his mouth their changes shifted, 
And with his goat's-eyes looked around 

Where'er the passing curi'ent drifted; 
And soon, as on Trinaerian hills 

The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear 
him, 
Even now the tradesmen from their tills. 

With clerks and porters, crowded near 
him. 

The bulls and bears together drew 

From Jauncey Court and New Street 
Alley, 
As erst, if pastorals be true. 

Came beasts from every wooded val- 
ley; 
The random passers stayed to list, — 

A boxer ^gon, rough and merry, 
A Broadway Daphnis, on his tryst 

With Nais at the Brooklyn Ferry. 

A one-eyed Cyclops halted long 

In tattered cloak of army pattern, 
And Galatea joined the throng, — 

A blowsy, apple-vending slattern; 
While old Silenus staggered out 

From some new-fangled lunch-house 
handy. 
And bade the piper, with a shout, 
To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy ! 

A newsboy and a peanut-girl 

Like little Fauns began to caper: 
His hair was all in tangled curl, 

Her tawny legs were bare and taper; 
And still the gathering larger grew, 

And gave its pence and crowded nigher, 
While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew 

His pipe, and struck the gamut higher. 



EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 



535 



O heart of Nature, beatirtg still 

With throbs her verual passion taught 
her, — 
Even here, as on the vine-clad hill, 

Or by the Arethusan water ! 
New forms may fold the speech, new lands 

Arise within these ocean-portals. 
But Music waves eternal wands, — 

Enchantress of the souls of mortals ! 

So thought I, — but among us trod 

A man in blue, with legal baton, 
And scoffed the vagrant demigod. 

And pushed him from the step I ^at on. 
Doubting I mused upon the cry, 

"Great Pan is dead!" — and all the 
people 
Went on their ways : — and clear and high 

The quarter sounded from the steeple, 

KEARNY. AT SEVEN PINES 

So that soldierly legend is still on its 
journey, — 
That story of Kearny who knew not to 
yield ! 
'T was the day when with Jameson, fierce 
Berry, and Birney, 
Against twenty thousand he rallied the 
field. 
Where the red volleys poured, where the 
clamor rose highest. 
Where the dead lay in clumps through 
the dwarf oak and pine, 
Where the aim from the thicket was surest 
and nighest, — 
No charge like Phil Kearny's along the 
whole line. 

When the battle went ill, and the bravest 
were solemn. 
Near the dark Seven Pines, where we 
still held our ground, 
He rode down the length of the withering 
column. 
And his heart at our war-cry leapt up 
with a bound; 
He snufi^ed, like his charger, the wind of 
the powder, — 
His sword waved us on and we answered 
the sign: 
Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his 
laugh rang the louder, 
'* There 's the devil's own fun, boys, along 
the whole line ! " 



How he strode his brown steed ! How 
we saw his blade brighten 
In the one hand still left, — and the reins 
in his teeth ! 
He laughed like a boy when the holidays 
heighten, 
But a soldier's glance shot from his visor 
beneath. 
Up came the reserves to the mellay in- 
fernal. 
Asking where to go in, — through the 
clearing or pine ? 
" O, anywhere ! Forward ! 'T is all the 
same, Colonel: 
You '11 find lovely fighting along the 
whole line ! " 

O, evil the black shroud of night at Chan- 
tilly, 
That hid him from sight of his brave men 
and tried ! 
Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the 
white lily, 
The flower of our knighthood, the whole 
army's pride ! 
Yet we dream that he still, — in that 
shadowy region 
Where the dead form their ranks at the 
wan drummer's sign, — 
Rides on, as of old, down the length of his 
legion, 
And the word still is Forward ! along 
the whole line. 



THE HAND OF LINCOLN 

Look on this cast, and know the hand 
That bore a nation in its hold: 

From this mute witness understand 

What Lincoln was, — how large of mould 

The man who sped the woodman's team, 
And deepest sunk the ploughman's share, 

And pushed the laden raft astream, 
Of fate before him unaware. 

This was the hand that knew to swing 
The axe — since thus would Freedom 
train 

Her son — and made the forest ring, . 
And drove the wedge, and toiled amain. 

Firm hand, that loftier office took, 
A conscious leader's will obeyed, 



336 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



And, when men sought his word and 
look, 
With steadfast might the gathering 
swayed. 

No courtier's, toying with a sword, 
Nor minstrel's, laid across a lute ; 

A chief's, uplifted to the Lord 

When all the kings of earth were mute ! 

The hand of Anak, sinewed strong. 
The fingers that on greatness clutch; 

Yet, lo ! the marks their lines along 
Of one who strove and suffered much. 

For here in knotted cord and vein 
I trace the varying chart of years; 

I know the troubled heart, the strain. 
The weight of Atlas — and the tears. 

Again I see the patient brow 

That palm erewhile was wont to press; 
And now 't is furrowed deep, and now 

Made smooth with hope and tenderness. 

For something of a formless grace 
This moulded outline plays about; 

A pitying flame, beyond our trace, 
Breathes like a spirit, in and out, — 

The love that cast an aureole 

Round one who, longer to endure, 

Called mirth to ease his ceaseless dole. 
Yet kept his nobler purpose sure. 

Lo, as I gaze, the statured man, 

Built up from yon large hand, appears: 

A type that Nature wills to plan 
But once in all a people's years. 

What better than this voiceless cast 

To tell of such a one as he, 
Since through its living semblance passed 

The thought that bade a race be free ! 



SALEM 

A. D. 1692 

SOE, Mistress Anne, faire neighbour myne. 
How rides a witche when nighte-winds 
blowe ? 
Folk saye that you are none too goode 
To joyne the crewe in Salem woode, 



When one you wot of gives the signe: 
Righte well, methinks, the pathe you 
knowe. 

In Meetinge-time I watched you well, 
Whiles godly Master Parris prayed: 

Your folded hands laye on your booke; 

But Richard answered to a looke 

That fain would tempt him unto hell, 
Where, Mistress Anne, your place is 
made. 

You looke into my Richard's eyes 

With evill glances shamelesse growne; 
I found about his wriste a hair, 
And guesse what fingers tyed it there: 
He shall not lightly be your prize — 
Your Master firste shall take his owne. 

'T is not in nature he should be 

(Who loved me soe when Springe was 
greene) 
A chikle, to hange upon your gowne ! 
He loved me well in Salem Towne 
Until this wanton witcherie 

His hearte and myne crept dark betweene. 

Last Sabbath nighte, the gossips saye, 
Your goodman missed you from his side. 

He had no strength to move, untill 

Agen, as if in slumber still. 

Beside him at the dawne you laye. 

Tell, nowe, what meanwhile did betide. 

Dame Anne, mye hate goe with you fleete 

As driftes the Bay fogg overhead — 
Or over yonder hill-topp, where 
There is a tree ripe fruite shall bear 
When, neighbour myne, your wicked feet 
The stones of Gallowes Hill shall tread. 



FALSTAFF'S SONG 

Where 's he that died o' Wednesday ? 

What place on earth hath he ? 
A tailor's yard beneath, I wot. 

Where worms approaching be; 
For the wight that died o' Wednesday, 

Just laid the light below, 
Is dead as the varlet turned to clay 

A score of years ago. 

Where 's he that died o' Sabba' day ? 
Good Lord, I 'd not be he ! 



EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 



337 



The best of days is foul enough 
From this world's fare to flee; 

And the saint that died o' Sabba' day, 
With his grave turf yet to grow, 

Is dead as the sinner brought to pray 
A hundred years ago. 

Where 's he that died o' yesterday ? 

What better chance hath he 
To clink the can and toss the pot 

When this night's junkets be ? 
For the lad that died o' yesterday 

Is just as dead — ho ! ho ! — 
As the whoreson knave men laid away 

A thousand years ago. 



THE WORLD WELL LOST 

That year ? Yes, doubtless I remember 
still,— 
Though why take count of every wind 
that blows ! 
'T was plain, men said, that Fortune used 
me ill 
That year, — the self -same year I met 
with Rose. 

Crops failed; wealth took a flight; house, 
treasure, land. 
Slipped from my hold — thus plenty 
comes and goes. 
One friend I had, but he too loosed his 
hand 
(Or was it I ?) the year I met with Rose. 

There was a war, I think; some rumor, 
too. 
Of famine, pestilence, fire, deluge, snows; 
Things went awry. My rivals, straight in 
view. 
Throve, spite of all ; but I, — I met with 
Rose. 

That year my white-faced Alma pined and 
died : 
Some trouble vexed her quiet heart, — 
who knows ? 
Not I, who scarcely missed her from my 
side. 
Or aught else gone, the year I met with 
Rose. 



Was there no more ? Yes, that year life 
began: 
All life before a dream, false joys, light 
woes, — 
All after-life compressed within the span 
Of that one year, — the year I met with 
Rose ! 



HELEN KELLER 

Mute, sightless visitant, 
From what uncharted world 
Hast voyaged into Life's rude sea. 

With guidance scant; 
As if some bark mysteriously 
Should hither glide, with spars aslant 
And sails all furled ! 

In what perpetual dawn. 
Child of the spotless brow, 
Hast kept thy spirit far withdrawn — 

Thy birthright undefiled ? 
What views to thy sealed eyes appear ? 
What voices mayst thou hear 
Speak as we know not how ? 
Of grief and sin hast thou, 
O radiant child, 
Even thou, a share ? Can mortal taint 
Have power on thee unfearing 
The woes our sight, our hearing, 
Learn from Earth's crime and plaint ? 

Not as we see 
Earth, sky, insensate forms, ourselves, 
Thou seest, — but vision-free 
Thy fancy soars and delves, 
Albeit no sounds to us relate 
The wondrous things 
Thy brave imaginings 
Within their starry night create. 

Pity thy unconfined 
Clear spirit, whose enfranchised eyes 

Use not their grosser sense ? 
Ah, no ! thy bright intelligence 

Hath its own Paradise, 
A realm wherein to hear and see 

Things hidden from our kind. 

Not thou, not thou — 't is we 

Are deaf, are dumb, are blind ! 
1888. 



338 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



MORGAN 

Oh, what a set of Vagabundos, 

Sons of Neptune, sons of Mars, 
Raked from todos otros mundos, 

Lascars, Gascons, Portsmouth tars, 
Prison mate and dock-yard fellow, 

Blades to Meg and Molly dear, 
OfiE to capture Porto Bello 

Sailed with Morgan the Buccaneer ! 

Out they voyaged from Port Royal 

(Fatboms deep its ruins be. 
Pier and convent, fortress loya , 

Smik beneath the gaping sea^ ; 
On the Spaniard's beach they landed, 

Dead to pity, void of fear, — 
Round their blood-red flag embanded, 

Led by Morgan the Buccaneer. 

Dawn till dusk they stormed the castle. 

Beat the gates and gratings down; 
Then, with ruthless rout and wassail. 

Night and day they sacked the town. 
Staved the bins its cellars boasted. 

Port and Lisbon, tier on tier. 
Quaffed to heart's content, and toasted 

Harry Morgan the Buccaneer: 

Stripped the church and monastery, 

Racked the prior for his gold. 
With the traders' wives made merry. 

Lipped the young and mocked the old, 
Diced for hapless senoritas 

(Sire and brother bound anear), — 
Juanas, Lolas, Manuelitas, 

Cursing Morgan the Buccaneer. 

Lust and rapine, flame and slaughter. 

Forayed with the Welshman grim : 
" Take my pesos, spare my daughter ! " 

" Ha ! ha ! " roared that devil's limb, 
" These shall jingle in our pouches. 

She with us shall find good cheer." 
" Lash the graybeard till he crouches ! " 

Shouted Morgan the Buccaneer. 

Out again through reef and breaker. 

While the Spaniard moaned his fate, 
Back they voyaged to Jamaica, 

Flush with doubloons, coins of eight. 
Crosses wrung from Popish varlets. 

Jewels torn from arm and ear, — 
Jesu ! how the Jews and harlots 

Welcomed Morgan the Buccaneer ! 



ON A GREAT MAN WHOSE 
MIND IS CLOUDING 

That sovereign thought obscured ? That 
vision clear 
Dimmed in the shadow of the sable wing, 
And fainter grown the fine interpreting 
Which as an oracle was ours to hear ! 
Nay, but the Gods reclaim not from the seer 
Their gift, — although he ceases here to 

sing, _ _ - 

And, like the antique sage, a covering 
Draws round his head, knowing what 
chano-e is near. 



SI JEUNESSE SAVAIT! 

When the veil from the eyes is lifted 

The seer's head is gray; 
When the sailor to shore has drifted 

The sirens are far away. 
Why must the clearer vision. 

The wisdom of Life's late hour, 
Come, as in Fate's derision, 

When the hand has lost its power ? 
Is there a rarer being. 

Is there a fairer sphere 
Where the strong are not unseeing, 

And the harvests are not sere; 
Where, ere the seasons dwindle, 

They yield their due return; 
Where the lamps of knowledge kindle 

While the flames of youth still burn ? 
O, for the young man's chances ! 

O, for the old man's will ! 
Those flee while this advances. 

And the strong years cheat us still. 



MORS BENEFICA 

Give me to die unwitting of the day, 
And stricken in Life's brave heat, with 

senses clear: 
Not swathed and couched until the lines ap- 
pear 
Of Death's wan mask upon this withering 

clay, 
But as that old man eloquent made way 
From Earth, a nation's conclave hushed 

anear ; 
Or as the chief whose fates, that he may hear 
The victory, one glorious moment stay. 
Or, if not thus, then with no cry in vain, 



EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 



339 



No ministraut beside to ward and weep, 
Hand upon helm I would my quittance gain 
In some wild turmoil of the waters deep, 
And sink coubent into a dreamless sleep 
(Spared grave and shroud) below the an- 
cient main, 

QUEST 

FROM " CORDA CONCORDIA " 

Where broods the Absolute, 

Or shuns our long pursuit 
By fiery utmost pathways out of ken ? 

Fleeter than sunbeams, lo, 

Our passionate spirits go. 
And traverse immemorial space, and then 

Look off, and look in vain, to find 
The master-clew to all they left behind. 

White orbs like angels pass 
Before the triple glass, 
That men may scan the record of each 
flame, — 
Of spectral line and line 
The legendry divine, — 
Finding their mould the same, and aye the 
same, 
The atoms that we knew before 
Of which ourselves are made, — dust, and 
no more. 

So let our defter art 
Probe the warm brain, and part 
Each convolution of the trembling shell: 
But whither now has fled 
The sense to matter wed 
That murmured here ? All silence, such 
as fell 
When to the shrine beyond the Ark 
The soldiers reached, and found it void 
and dark. 

Seek elsewhere, and in vain 
The wings of morning chain; 
Their speed transmute to fire, and bring the 
Light, 
The co-eternal beam 
Of the blind minstrel's dream ; 
But think not that bright heat to know 
aright, , 

Nor how the trodden seed takes root. 
Waked by its glow, and climbs to flower 
and fruit. 

Behind each captured law 
Weird shadows give us awe; 



Press with your swords, the phantoms still 
evade; 
Through our alertest host 
Wanders at ease some ghost, 
Now here, now there, by no enchantment 
laid. 
And works upon our souls its will. 
Leading us on to subtler mazes still. 

We think, we feel, we are; 
And light, as of a star, 
Gropes through the mist, — a little light is 
given; 
And aye from life and death 
We strive, with indrawn breath, 
To somehow wrest the truth, and long 
have striven. 
Nor pause, though book and star and clod 
Reply, Canst thou by searching find out God ? 

As from the hollow deep 
The soul's strong tide must keep 
Its purpose still. We rest not, though we 
hear 
No voice from heaven let fall, 
No chant antiphonal 
Sounding through sunlit clefts that open 
near; 
We look not outward, but within. 
And think not quite to end as we begin. 

INVOCATION 

Thou, — whose endearing hand once laid 

in sooth 
Upon thy follower, no want thenceforth. 
Nor toil, nor joy and pain, nor waste of 

years 
Filled with all cares that deaden and sub- 
due, 
Can make thee less to him — can make thee 

less 
Than sovereign queen, his first liege, and 

his last 
Remembered to the unconscious dying 

hour, — 
Return and be thou kind, bright Spirit of 

song. 
Thou whom I yet loved most, loved most of 

all 
Even when I left thee — I, now so long 

strayed 
From thy beholding ! And renew, renew 
Thy gift to me fain clinging to thy robe ! 
Still be thou kind, for still thou wast most 

dear. 



34° 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD— DIVISION I 



€racp iHobinjeson 



SONG OF THE PALM 



Wild is its nature, as it were a token, 

Born of the sunshine, and the stars, 
and sea; 

Grand as a passion felt but never spoken, 
Lonely and proud and free. 

For when the Maker set its crown of beauty, 
And for its home ordained the torrid 

^ ring, 
Assigning unto each its place and duty, 
He made the Palm a King. 

So when in reverie I look and listen, 

Half dream-like floats, within my pas- 
sive mind. 
Why in the sun its branches gleam and 
glisten. 
And harp- wise beat the wind; 

Why, when the sea-waves, heralding theix 
tidings. 
Come roaring on the shore with crests 
of down. 
In grave "acceptance of their sad confidings. 
It bows its stately crown; 

Why, in the death-like calms of night and 
morning, 
Its quivering spears of green are never 
still, 
But ever tremble, as at solemn warning 
A human heart may thrill; 

And also why it stands in lonely places, 
By the red desert or the sad sea shore, 

Or haunts the jungle, or the mountain 
graces 
Where eagles proudly soar ! 

It is a sense of kingly isolation, 

Of royal beauty and enchanting grace. 
Proclaiming from the earliest creation 

The power and pride of race, 

That has almost imbued it with a spirit, 
And made it sentient, although still a 
tree, 

With dim perception that it might inherit 
An immortality. 



The lines of kinship thus so near conver- 
ging, 
It is not strange, O heart of mine, 
that I, 

While stars were shining and old ocean sur- 

ging, . 
Should intercept a sigh. 

It fell a-sighing when the faint wind, dying. 
Had kissed the tropic night a fond 
adieu — 

The starry cross on her warm bosom lying. 
Within the southern view. 

And when the crescent moon, the west de- 
scending, 
Drew o'er her face the curtain of the 
sea, 
In the rapt silence, eager senses lending, 
Low came the sigh to me. 

God of my life ! how can I ever render 
The full sweet meaning sadly thus con- 
veyed — 
The full sad meaning, heart-breakiugly 
tender, 
That through the cadence strayed. 



When the wild North-wind by the sun en- 
chanted. 
Seeks the fair South, as lover beauty's 
shrine, 
It bears the moaning of the sorrow-haunted, 
Gloomy, storm-beaten Pine. 

The waves of ocean catch the miserere. 

Far wafted seaward from the wintry 
main. 

They roll it on o'er reaches vast and dreary 
With infinite refrain. 

Until on coral shores, where endless Sum- 
mer 
Waves golden banners round her 
queenly throne, 
The Palm enfolds the weary spirit roamer 
With low responsive moan. 

The sea-grape hears it, and the lush banana, 
In the sweet indolence of their repose; 



TRACY ROBINSON — CHARLES HENRY WEBB 



341 



The frangipanni, like a crowned Sultana, 
The passion flower, and rose; 

And the fierce tiger in his darksome lair, 
Deep hid away beneath the bamboo- 
tree; 

All the wild habitants of earth and air, 
And of the sleeping sea. 

It throws a spell of silence so enthralling, 
So breathless and intense and mystical, 

Not the deep hush of skies when stars are 
falling 
Can fill the soul so full. 

A death in life ! A calm so deep and 
brooding 
It floods the heart with an ecstatic pain, 
Brimming with joy, yet fearfully fore- 
boding 
The dreadful hurricane. 

Fail love, fly happiness, yield all things 
mortal ! 
Fate, with the living, hath my small 
lot cast 



To dwell beside thee, Palm ! Beyond death's 
portal. 
Guard well my sleep at last. 

For I do love thee with a lover's pas- 
sion. 
Morn, noon, and night thou art forever 
grand, — 
Type of a glory God alone may fashion 
Within the Summer Land. 

Sigh not, O Palm ! Dread not the final 
hour; 
For oft 1 've seen within thy gracious 
shade. 
Amid rose-garlands fair, from Love's own 
bower, 
Lithe, dusky forms displayed, 

Clad with the magic of their beauty 
only; 
And it were strange if Paradise should 
be 
Despoiled and made forever sad and 
lonely. 
Bereft of these and thee ! 



€t^at\t^ ipciirp Wthh 



WITH A NANTUCKET SHELL 

I SEND thee a shell from the ocean beach; 
But listen thou well, for my shell hath 
speech. 

Hold to thine ear, 

And plain thou'lt hear 

Tales of ships 

That were lost in the rips. 

Or that sunk on shoals 

Where the bell-buoy tolls. 
And ever and ever its iron tongue rolls 
In a ceaseless lament for the poor lost 
souls. 

And a song of the sea 
Has my shell for thee; 
The melody in it 
Was hummed at Wauwinet, 
And caught at Coatue 
By the gull that flew 
Outside to the ship with its perishing 



But the white wings wave 
Where none may save. 
And there 's never a stone to mark a grave. 

See, its sad heart bleeds 

For the sailors' needs; 

But it bleeds again 

For more mortal pain. 

More sorrow and woe, 

Than is theirs who go 
With shuddering eyes and whitening lips 
Down in the sea on their shattered ships. 

Thou fearest the sea ? 

And a tyrant is he, — 
A tyrant as cruel as tyrant may be; 

But though winds fierce blow, 

And the rocks lie low, 

And the coast be lee. 

This I say to thee: 
Of Christian souls more have been wrecked 
on shore 

Than ever were lost at sea ! 



342 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD - DIVISION I 



MARCH 

The earth seems a desolate mother, — 
Betrayed like the princess of old, 

The ermine stripped from her shoulders, 
And her bosom all naked and cold. 

But a joy looks out from her sadness, 
For she feels with a glad unrest 

The throb of the unborn summer 
Under her bare, brown breast. 



GIL, THE TOREADOR 

The Queen sat in her balcony, 
, The Loveliest of Spain; 
Beneath rode all the chivalry, 

And roses fell like rain 
To crown the gallant gentlemen 

The gonfalon who bore: 
A woman's favor fell for one, — 

Gil, the Toreador. 

Beneath the royal caiiopy. 

To see the red bull slain. 
They sat, like loyal lovers. 

The King and Queen of Spain. 
Came marshal, noble, knight and squire, 

Chulo and picador: 
Of all a woman saw but one, — 

Gil, the Toreador. 

The trumpets clanged, the sport was on, 

The royal sport of Spain; 
Maddened by shouts and thrust of lance 

The bull now charged amain: 
Down to their death went chulos then, 

And many a matador: — 
A woman only knew there fell 

Gil, the Toreador. 

When through the streets of proud Ma- 
drid 

Swept next the courtly train, 
Sat not upon her balcony 

The Loveliest of Spain. 



Long live the King and his fair Queen, 
Still loyal thousands roar: — 

None know what woman died when fell 
Gil, the Toreador. 



DUM VIVIMUS VIGILEMUS 

Turn out more ale, turn up the light; 
I will not go to bed to-night. 
Of all the foes that man should dread 
The first and worst one is a bed. 
Friends I have had both old and young. 
And ale we drank and songs we sung: 
Enough you know when this is said. 
That, one and all, — they died in bed. 
In bed they died and I '11 not go 
Where all my friends have perished so. 
Go you who glad would buried be, 
But not to-night a bed for me. 

For me to-night no bed prepare, 

But set me out my oaken chair. 

And bid no other guests beside 

The ghosts that shall around me glide; 

In curling smoke-wreaths I shall see 

A fair and gentle company. 

Though silent all, rare revellers they, 

Who leave you not till break of day. 
Go you who would not daylight see, 
But not to-night a bed for me: 
For I 've been born and I 've been wed ^- 
All of man's peril comes of bed. 

And I '11 not seek — whate 'er befall — 

Him who imbidden comes to all. 

A grewsome guest, a lean-jawed wight — 

God send he do not come to-night ! 

But if he do, to claim his own. 

He shall not find me lying prone; 

But blithely, bravely, sitting up, 

And raising high the stirrup-cup. 

Then if you find a pipe unfilled. 

An empty chair, the brown ale spilled; 

Well may you know, though naught be 
said. 

That I 've been borne away to bed. 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



343 



aicprti i^tait 



INDIRECTION 



Fair are tlie flowers and. the children, but 
their subtle suggestion is fairer; 

Rare is the roseburst of dawn, but the secret 
that -clasps it is rarer; 

Sweet the exultance of song, but the strain 
that precedes it is sweeter; 

And never was poem yet writ, but the mean- 
ing outmastered the metre. 

Never a daisy that grows, but a mystery 

guideth the growing; 
Never a river that flows, but a majesty 

sceptres the flowing; 
Never a Shakespeare that soared, but a 

stronger than he did enfold hiui. 
Nor ever a prophet foretells, but a mightier 

seer hath foretold him. 

Back of the canvas that throbs the painter 

is hinted and hidden; 
Into the statue that breathes the soul of 

the sculptor is bidden; 
Under the joy that is felt lie the infinite 

issues of feeling; 
Crowning the glory revealed is the glory 

that crowns the revealing. 

Great are the symbols of being, but that 

which is symbol ed is greater; 
Vast the create and beheld, but vaster the 

inward creator; 
Back of the sound broods the silence, back 

of the gift stands the giving; 
Back of the hand that receives thrill the 

sensitive nerves of receiving. 

Space is as nothing to spirit, the deed is 

outdone by the doing; 
The heart of the wooer is warm, but warmer 

the heart of the wooing; 
And up from the pits where these shiver, 

and up from the heights where 

those slaine, 
Twin voices and shadows swim starward, 

and the essence of life is divine. 

THE WORD 

O Earth ! thou hast not any wind that 

blows 
Which is not music; every weed of thine 



Pressed rightly flows in aromatic wine; 
And every humble hedgerow flower that 

grows, 
And every little brown bird that doth sing, 
Hath something greater than itself, and 

bears 
A living Word to every living thing, 
Albeit it hold the Message unawares. 
All shapes and sounds have something 

which is not 
Of them: a Spirit broods amid the grass; 
Vague outlines of the Everlasting Thought 
Lie in the melting shadows as they pass; 
The touch of an Eternal Presence thrills 
The fringes of the sunsets and the hills. 



AN OLD MAN'S IDYL 

By the waters of Life we sat together, 

Hand in hand in the golden days 
Of the beautiful early summer weather, 
When skies were purple and breath was 
praise, 
When the heart kept tune to the carol of 
birds. 
And the birds kept tune to the songs 
which ran 
Through shimmer of flowers on grassy 
swards, 
And trees with voices seolian. 

By the rivers of Life we walked together, 

I and my darling, unafraid; 
And lighter than any linnet's feather 

The burdens of being on us weighed. 
And Love's sweet miracles o'er us threw 

Mantles of joy outlasting Time, 
And up from the rosy morrows grew 

A sound that seemed like a marriage 
chime. 

In the gardens of Life we strayed together; 

And the luscious apples were ripe and 
red, 
And the languid lilac and honeyed heather 

Swooned with the fragrance which they 
shed. 
And under the trees the angels walked, 

And up in the air a sense of wings 
Awed us tenderly while we talked 

Softly in sacred communings. 



344 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



In the meadows of Life we strayed together, 

Watching the waving harvests grow; 
And under the benison of the Father 

Our hearts, like the lambs, skipped to 
and fro. 
And the cowslip, hearing our low replies, 

Broidered fairer the emerald banks. 
And glad tears shone in the daisy's eyes, 

And the timid violet glistened thanks. 

Who was with us, and what was round us. 

Neither myself nor my darling guessed ; 
Only we knew that something crowned us 

Out from the heavens with crowns of 
rest; 
Only we knew that something bright 

Lingered lovingly where we stood, 
Clothed with the incandescent light 

Of something higher than humanhood. 

O the riches Love doth inherit ! 

Ah, the alchemy which doth change 
Dross of body and dregs of spirit 

Into sanctities rare and strange ! 



My flesh is feeble and dry and old. 
My darling's beautiful hair is gray; 

But our elixir and precious gold 
Laugh at the footsteps of decay. 

Harms of the world have come unto us, 
Cups of sorrow we yet shall drain; 

But we have a secret which doth show us 
Wonderful rainbows in the rain. 

And we hear the tread of the years move 

And the sun is setting behind the hills; 
But my darling does not fear to die, 
And I am happy in what God wills. 

So we sit by our household fires together. 

Dreaming the dreams of long ago: 
Then it was balmy summer weather. 

And now the valleys are laid in snow. 
Icicles hang from the slippery eaves ; 

The wind blows cold, — 't is growing late ; 
Well, well ! we have garnered all our 
sheaves, 

I and my darling, and we wait. 



oBcougc ^niolij 



FAREWELL TO SUMMER 

SuMMEK is fading; the broad leaves that 
grew 
So freshly green, when June was young, 
are falling; 
And, all the whisper-haunted forest through, 
The restless birds in saddened tones are 
calling, 
From rustling hazel copse and tangled dell, 
"Farewell, sweet Summer, 
Fragrant, fruity Summer, 
Sweet, farewell ! " 

Upon the windy hills, in many a field, 
The honey-bees hum slow, above the 
clover. 
Gleaning the latest sweets its blooms may 
yield, _ 
And, knowing that their harvest-time is 
over. 
Sing, half a lullaby and half a knell, 
" Farewell, sweet Summer, 
Honey-laden Summer, 
Sweet, farewell ! " 



The little brook that babbles mid the 
ferns, 
O'er twisted roots and sandy shallows 
playing, 
Seems fain to linger in its eddied turns, 
And with a plaintive, purling voice is 
saying 
(Sadder and sweeter than my song can 
tell), 

" Farewell, sweet Summer, 
Warm and dreamy Summer, 
Svi^eet, farewell ! " 

The fitful breeze sweeps down the winding 
lane 
With gold and crimson leaves before it 
flying; _ 

Its gusty laughter has no sound of pam, 
But in the lulls it sinks to gentle sigh- 
ing- 
And mourns the Summer's early broken 
spell, — 

" Farewell, sweet Summer, 
Rosy, blooming Summer, 
Sweet, farewell ! " 



GEORGE ARNOLD — FRANCES LOUISA BUSHNELL 



345 



season passing 



So bird and bee and brook and breeze make 
uaoan, 
With melancholy song their loss com- 
plaining. 
I too must join them, as I walk alone 
Among the sights and sounds of Sum- 
mer's waning. . . . 
I too have loved the 
well. . . . 

So, farewell, Summer, 
Fair but faded Summer, 
Sweet, farewell ! 



BEER 

Here, 

With my beer 

I sit, 

While golden moments flit: 

Alas ! 

They pass 

Unheeded by: 

And, as they fly, 

Being dry. 

Sit, idly sipping here 

My beer. 



O, finer far 

Than fame, or riches, are 
The graceful smoke-wreaths of this free 
cigar ! 

Why 

Should I 

Weep, wail, or sigh ? 

What if luck has passed me by ? 
What if my hopes are dead, — 
My pleasures fled ? 

Have I not still 

My fill 
Of right good cheer, — 
Cigars and beer ? 

Go, whining youth, 

Forsooth I 
Go, weep and wail. 
Sigh and grow pale. 

Weave melancholy rhymes 

On the old times. 
Whose joys like shadowy ghosts appear, 
But leave to me my beer ! 

Gold is dross, — 

Love is loss, — 
So, if I gulp my sorrows down, 
Or see them drown 
In foamy draughts of old u'ut-brovra, 
Then do I wear the crown, 

Without the cross ! 



franceiS Eoui^a 53ui6f{)nen 



WORLD MUSIC 

Jubilant the music through the fields 

a-ringing, — 
Carol, warble, whistle, pipe, — endless ways 
of singing. 
Oriole, bobolink, melody of thrushes, 
Rustling trees, hum of bees, sudden little 
hushes. 
Broken suddenly again — 
Carol, whistle, rustle, humming, 
In reiterate refrain. 
Thither, hither, going, coming. 
While the streamlets' softer voices mingle 

murmurously together; 
Gurgle, whisper, lapses, plashes, — praise 
of love and summer weather. 

Hark! A music finer on the air is blow- 
ing,— 



Throbs of infinite content, sounds of things 
a-growing, 
Secret sounds, flit of bird under leafy 

cover. 
Odors shy floating by, clouds blown 
swiftly over, 
Kisses of the crimson roses. 
Crosses of the lily-lances. 
Stirrings when a bud uncloses, 
Tripping sun and shadow dances. 
Murmur of aerial tides, stealthy zephyrs 

gliding. 
And a thousand nameless things sweeter 
for their hiding. 

Ah ! a music more than these floweth on 

forever. 
In and out, yet all beyond our tracing or 

endeavor, 



346 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Far yet clear, strange yet near, sweet 

with a profounder sweetness, 
Mystical, rhythmical, weaving all into 
completeness; 
For its wide, harmonious measures 
Not one earthly note let fall; 
Sorrows, raptures, pains and pleasures, 
All in it, and it in all. 
Of earth's music the ennobler, of its discord 

the refiner, 
Pipe of Pan was once its naming, now it 
hath a name diviner. 



UNFULFILMENT 

Ah, June is here, but where is May ? — 

That lovely, shadowy thing, 
Fair promiser of fairer day. 

That made my fancy stretch her wing. 
In hope-begetting spring. 

The spaces vague, the luminous veil, 

The drift of bloom and scent. 
Those dreamy longings setting sail, 

That knew not, asked not, where they 
went, — 
Ah ! was this all they meant, — 

This day that lets me dream no more, 
This bright, unshadowed round ? 

On some illimitable shore, 

The harbor whither those were bound 
Lieth, nor yet is found. 



IN THE DARK 

Restless, to-night, and ill at ease. 
And finding every place too strait, 

J leave the porch shut in with trees. 
And wander through the garden-gate. 

So dark at first, I have to feel 

My way before me with my hands; 

But soul-like fragrances reveal 

My virgin Daphne, where she stands. 

Her stars of blossom breathe aloft 
Her worship to the stars above; 

In wavering pulsations soft. 

Climbs the sweet incense of her love; 

Those far, celestial eyes can dart 

Their glances down through leafy 
bars; 
The spark that burns within her heart 
Was dropped, in answer, from the 
stars. 

She does not find the space too small, 
The night too dark, for sweetest 
bloom ; 

Content within the garden wall. 

Since upward there is always room. 

Her spotless heart, through all the night, 
Holds safe its little vestal spark. 

O blessed, if the soul be white. 

To breathe and blossom in the dark ! 



^nnie fulfil 



ON WAKING FROM A DREAM- 
LESS SLEEP 

I WAKED ; the sun was in the sky, 
The face of heaven was fair; 

The silence all about me lay. 
Of morning in the air. 

I said, Where hast thou been, my soul. 
Since the moon set in the west ? 

I know not where thy feet have trod, 
Nor what has been thy quest. 

Where wast thou when Orion past 
Below the dark-blue sea ? 



His glittering, silent stars are gone, — • 
Didst follow them for me ? 

Where wast thou in that awful hour 
When first the night-wind heard 

The faint breath of the coming dawn, 
And fled before the word ? 

Where hast thou been, my spirit, 
Siuce the long wave on the shore 

Tenderly rocked my sense asleep, 
And I heard thee no more ? 

My limbs like breathing marble 
Have lain in the warm down; 



ANNIE FIELDS 



347 



No heavenly chant, no earthly care, 


The immortal childhood of the world. 


Have stirred a smile or frown. 


The laughing waters of an inland sea. 




And beckoning signal of a sail unfurled ! 


I wake; thy kiss is on my lips; 




Thou art my day, my sun ! 




But where, spirit, where wast thou 


LITTLE GUINEVER 


While the sands of night have run ? 






" When Queen Guinever of Britain was a little 




wench." 




Love's Labour 's Lost. 


THEOCRITUS 






Swift across the palace floor 


Ay ! Unto thee helong 


Flashed her tiny wilful feet; 


The pipe and song. 


" Playfellow, I will no more. 


Theocritus, — 


Now I must my task complete." 


Loved by the satyr and the faun ! 




To thee the olive and the vine, 


Arthur kissed her childish hand. 


To thee the Mediterranean pine, 


Sighed to think her task severe, 


And the soft lapping sea ! 


Walked forth in the garden land. 


Thine, Bacchus, 


Lonely till she reappear. 


Thine, the blood-red revels, 




Thine, the bearded goat ! 


She has sought her latticed room. 


Soft valleys unto thee. 


Overlooking faery seas. 


And Aphrodite's shrine. 


Called Launcelot from a bowery gloom 


And maidens veiled in falling robes of lawn ! 


To feast of milk and honey of bees. 


But unto us, to us. 




The stalwart glories of the North ; 


" Had we bid Prince Arthur too, 


Ours is the sounding main. 


He had shaken his grave head. 


And ours the voices uttering forth 


Saying, ' My holidays are few ! ' — 


By midnight round these cliffs a mighty 


May queens not have their will ? " she said 


strain ; 




A tale of viewless islands in the deep 


Thus she passed the merry day. 


Washed by the waves' white fire; 


Thus her women spake and smiled: 


Of mariners rocked asleep. 


" All we see we need not say, 


In the great cradle, far from Grecian ire 


For Guinever is but a child." 


Of Neptune and his train; 




To us, to us, 




The dark-leaved shadow and the shining 

birch, 
The flight of gold through hollow wood- 


THE RETURN 


The bright sea washed beneath her feet, 


lands driven. 


As it had done of yore, 


Soft dying of the year with many a sigh. 


The well-remembered odor sweet 


These, all, to us are given ! 


Came through her opening door. 


And eyes that eager evermore shall search 




The hidden seed, and searching find again 


Again the grass his ripened head 


Unfading blossoms of a fadeless spring; 


Bowed where her raiment swept; 


These, these, to us ! 


Again the fog-bell told of dread. 


The sacred youth and maid, 


And all the landscape wept. 


Coy and half afraid; 




The sorrowful earthly pall. 


Again beside the woodland bars 


Winter and wintry rain. 


She found the wilding rose, 


And autumn's gathered grain. 


With petals fine and heart of stars, — 


With whispering music in their fall; 


The flower our childhood knows. 


These unto us ! 




And unto thee, Theocritus, 


And there, before that blossom small, 


To thee, 


By its young face beguiled. 



348 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



The woman saw her burden fall, 
And stood a little child. 

She knew no more the weight of love, 

No more the weight of grief; 
So could the simple wild-rose move 

And bring her heart relief. 

She asked not where her love was gone, 

Nor where her grief was fled, 
But stood as at the great white throne, 

Unmindful of things dead. 

"SONG, TO THE GODS, IS 
SWEETEST SACRIFICE" 

"Behold another singer ! " Criton said. 
And sneered, and in his sneering turned 

the leaf: 
"Who reads the poets now? They are 

past and dead : 



Give me for their vain work unrhymed re- 
lief." ' 
A laugh went round. Meanwhile the last 

ripe sheaf 
Of corn was garnered, and the summer 

birds 
Stilled their dear notes, while autumn's 

voice of grief 
Rang through the fields, and wept the 

gathered herds. 
Then in despair men murmured: "Is this 

all,— 
To fade and die within this narrow ring ? 
Where are the singers, with their hearts 

aflame, 
To tell again what those of old let 

fall, — 
How to decaying worlds fresh promise 

came. 
And how our angels in the night-time 

sing ? " 



l^atmt ^t^Wn MimbaW 



THE GUEST 

Speechless Sorrow sat with me; 
I was sighing wearily; 
Lamp and fire were out; the rain 
Wildly beat the window-pane. 
In the dark I heard a knock. 
And a hand was on the lock ; 
One in waiting spake to me, 

Saying sweetly, 
" I am come to sup with thee." 

All my room was dark and damp: 
" Sorrow," said I, " trim the lamp, 
Light the fire, and cheer thy face. 
Set the guest-chair in its place." 
And again I heard the knock; 
In the dark I found the lock: — 
"Enter, I have turned the key; 

Enter, Stranger, 
Who art come to sup with me." 

Opening wide the door he came. 
But I could not speak his name; 
In the guest-chair took his place. 
But I could not see his face. 
When my cheerful fire was beaming, 



When my little lamp was gleaming, 
And the feast was spread for three, 

Lo, my Master 
Was the Guest that supped with me ! 



ALL'S WELL 

The day is ended. Ere I sink to sleep, 
My weary spirit seeks repose in Thine. 
Father ! forgive my trespasses, and keep 
This little life of mine. 

With loving - kindness curtain Thou my 
bed, 
And cool in rest my burning pilgrim- 
feet; 
Thy pardon be the pillow for my head; 
So shall my sleep be sweet. 

At peace with all the world, dear Lord, 
and Thee, 
No fears my soul's unwavering faith can 
shake ; 
All 's well, whichever side the grave for 
me 
The morning light may break. 



HARRIET McEWEN KIMBALL — JOHN JAMES PIATT 349 



WHITE AZALEAS 


White ! not a hint 




Of the creamy tint 


Azaleas — whitest of white ! 


A rose will hold. 


White as the drifted snow 


The whitest rose, in its inmost fold; 


Fresh-fallen out of the night, 


Not a possible blush; 


Before the coming glow 


White as an embodied hush; 


Tinges the morning light; 


A very rapture of white ; 


When the light is like the snow, 


A wedlock of silence and light: 


White, 


White, white as the wonder undefiled 


And the silence is like the light: 


Of Eve just wakened in Paradise; 


Light, and silence, and snow, — 


Nay, white as the angel of a child 


All — white! 


That looks into God's own eyes ! 



gioljn g[ame^ ©iatt 



THE MOWER IN OHIO 

The bees in the clover are making honey, 
and I am making my hay: 

The air is fresh, I seem to draw a young 
man's breath to-day. 

The bees and I are alone in the grass: the 

air is so very still 
I hear the dam, so loud, that shines beyond 

the sullen mill. 

Yes, the air is so still that I hear almost 
the sounds I cannot hear — 

That, when no other sound is plain, ring in 
my empty ear: 

The chime of striking scythes, the fall of 
the heavy swaths they sweep — 

They ring about me, resting, when I waver 
half asleep ; 

So still, I am not sure if a cloud, low down, 

unseen there be. 
Or if something brings a rumor home of 

the cannon so far from me: 

Far away in Virginia, where Joseph and 

Grant, I know. 
Will tell them what I meant when first 

I had my mowers go ! 

Joseph, he is my eldest one, the only boy 

of my three 
Whose shadow can darken my door again, 

and lighten my heart for me. 



Joseph, he is my eldest — how his scythe 

was striking ahead ! 
William was better at shorter heats, but 

Jo in the long run led. 

William, he was my youngest; John, be- 
tween them I somehow see, 

When my eyes are shut, with a little board 
at his head in Tennessee. 

But William came home one morning early, 
from Gettysburg, last July, 

(The mowing was over already, although 
the only mower was I) : 

William, my captain, came home for 
good to his mother ; and I '11 be 
bound 

We were proud and cried to see the flag 
that wrapt his coffin around; 

For a company from the town came up ten 
miles with music and gun: 

It seemed his country claimed him then — 
as well as his mother — her son. 

But Joseph is yonder with Grant to-day, a 

thousand miles or near. 
And only the bees are broad at work with 

me in the clover here. 

Was it a murmur of thunder I heard that 
hummed again in the air ? 

Yet, may be, the cannon are sounding 
now their Onward to Richmond 
there. 



35° 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



But under the beech by the orchard, at 
noon, I sat an hour it would seem — 

It may be I slept a minute, too, or wavered 
into a dream. 

For I saw my boys, across the field, by the 

flashes as they went, 
Tramping a steady tramp as of old, with 

the strength in their arms unspent; 

Tramping a steady tramp, they moved like 
soldiers that march to the beat 

Of music that seems, a part of themselves, 
to rise and fall with their feet; 

Tramping a steady tramp, they came with 
flashes of silver that shone. 

Every step, from their scythes that rang as 
if they needed the stone — 

(The field is wide, and heavy with grass) 
— and, coming toward me, they 
beamed 

With a shine of light in their faces at once, 
and — surely I must have dreamed ! 

For I sat alone in the clover-field, the bees 

were working ahead. " 
There were three in my vision — remember, 

old man: and what if Joseph were 

dead ! 

But I hope that he and Grant (the flag 
above them both, to boot) 

Will go into Richmond together, no matter 
which is ahead or afoot ! 

Meantime, alone at the mowing here — an 
old man somewhat gray — 

I must stay at home as long as I can, 
making, myself, the hay. 

And so another round — the quail in the 
orchard whistles blithe ; — 

But first I '11 drink at the spring below, and 
whet again my scythe. 

ROSE AND ROOT 

A FABLE OF TWO LIVES 

The Rose aloft in sunny air, 
Beloved alike by bird and bee. 

Takes for the dark Root little care 
That toils below it ceaselessly. 



I put my question to the flower: 

" Pride of the Summer, garden queen, 

Why livest thou thy little hour ? " 
And the Rose answered, " I am seen." 

I put my question to the Root. 

" I mine the earth content," it said, 
" A hidden miner underfoot : 

I know a Rose is overhead." 



TO ABRAHAM LINCOLN 

Stern be the pilot in the dreadful hour 
When a great nation, like a ship at sea 
With the wroth breakers whitening at her 

lee. 
Feels her last shudder if her helmsman 

cower; 
A godlike manhood be his mighty dower ! 
Such and so gifted, Lincoln, mayst thou be. 
With thy high wisdom's low simplicity 
And awful tenderness of voted power. 
From our hot records then thy name shall 

stand 
On Time's calm ledger out of passionate 

days — 
With the pure debt of gratitude begun, 
And only paid in never-ending praise — 
One of the many of a mighty Land, 
Made by God's providence the Anointed 

One. 
1862. 

FARTHER 

(the suggested device of a new 

WESTERN state) 

Far-off a young State rises, full of might : 
I paint its brave escutcheon. Near at hand 
See the log-cabin in the rough clearing 

stand; 
A woman by its door, with steadfast sight, 
Trustful, looks Westward, where, uplifted 

bright. 
Some city's Apparition, weird and grand, 
In dazzling qiiiet fronts the lonely land, 
With vast and marvellous structures 

wrought of light. 
Motionless on the burning cloud afar: 
The haunting vision of a time to be, 
After the heroic age is ended here, 
Built on the boiindless, still horizon's bar 
By the low sun, his gorgeous prophecy 
Lighting the doorway of the pioneer ! 



JOHN JAMES PIATT 



351 



THE CHILD IN THE STREET 

FOR A VOLUME OF DOUBLE AUTHORSHIP 

Even as tender parents lovingly 

Send a dear child in some true servant's care 

Forth in the street, for larger light and air, 

Feeling the sun her guardian will be, 

And dreaming with a blushful pride that 

she 
Will earn sweet smiles and glances every- 
where, 
From loving faces; and that passers fair 
Will bend, and bless, and kiss her, when 

they see. 
And ask her name, and if her home is near, 
And think, " O gentle child, how blessed 

are they 
Whose twofold love bears up a single 

flower ! " 
And so with softer musing move away, — 
We send thee forth, O Book, thy little hour — 
The world may pardon us to hold thee dear. 



TO A LADY 

ON HER ART OF GROWING OLD GRACE- 
FULLY 

You ask a verse, to sing (ah, laughing face !) 
Your happy art of growing old with grace ? 
O Muse, begin, and let the truth — but hold ! 
First let me see that you are growing old. 



THE GUERDON 

To the quick brow Fame grudges her best 

wreath 
While the quick heart to enjoy it throbs 

beneath : 
On the dead forehead's sculptured marble 

shown, 
Lo, her choice crown — its flowers are also 

stone. 



TORCH-LIGHT IN AUTUMN 

I LIFT this sumach -bough with crimson 
flare. 
And, touched with subtle pangs of dreamy 
pain, 
Through the dark wood a torch I seem to 
bear 
In Autumn's funeral train. ' 



IRELAND 

A SEASIDE PORTRAIT 

A GREAT, still Shape, alone, 

She sits (her harp has fallen) on the sand, 
And sees her children, one by one, depart : — 
Her cloak (that hides what sins beside her 
own !) 
Wrapped fold on fold about her. Lo, 
She comforts her fierce heart. 
As wailing some, and some gay-singing go, 
With the far vision of that Greater Land 
Deep in the Atlantic skies, 
St. Brandan's Paradise ! 
Another Woman there. 
Mighty and wondrous fair. 
Stands on her shore-rock: — one uplifted 
hand 
Holds a quick-piercing light 
That keeps long sea-ways bright; 
She beckons with the other, saying " Come, 

O landless, shelterless, 
Sharp-faced with hunger, worn with long 
distress: — 
Come hither, finding home ! 
Lo, my new fields of harvest, open, free, 

By winds of blessing blown. 
Whose golden 6orn-blades shake from sea 

to sea — 
Fields without walls that all the people 
own ! " 



LEAVES AT MY WINDOW 

I WATCH the leaves that flutter in the wind. 
Bathing my eyes with coolness and my heart 
Filling with springs of grateful sense anew, 
Before my window — in wind and rain and 

sun. 
And now the wind is gone and now the rain, 
And all a motionless moment breathe; and 

now 
Playful the wind comes back — again the 

shower. 
Again the sunshine ! Like a golden swarm 
Of butterflies the leaves are fluttering. 
The leaves are dancing, singing — all alive 
(For Fancy gives her breath to every leaf) 
For the blithe moment. Beautiful to me. 
Of all inanimate things most beautiful. 
And dear as flowers their kindred, are the 

leaves 
In their glad summer life; and, when a 

child, 



352 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



I loved to lie through sunny afternoons 
With half-shut eyes (familiar then with 

things 
Long unfamiliar, knowing Fairyland 
And all the unhidden mysteries of the 

Earth) 
Using my kinship in those earlier days 
With Nature and the humbler people, dear 
To her green life, in every shade and sun. 
The leaves had myriad voices, and their joy 
One with the birds' that sang among them 

seemed; 
And, oftentimes, I lay in breezy shade 
Till, creeping with the loving stealth he takes 
In healthy temperaments, the blessed Sleep 
(Thrice blessed and thrice blessing now, 

because 
Of sleepless things that will not give us 

rest !) 
Came with his weird processions — dreams 

that wore 
All happy masks — blithe fairies number- 
less. 
Forever passing, never more to pass. 
The Spirits of the Leaves. Awaking then. 
Behold the sun was swimming in my face 
Through mists of his creation, swarming 

gold, 
And all the leaves in sultry languor lay 
Above me, for I wakened when they dropped 
Asleep, unmoving. Now, when Time has 

ceased 
His holiday, and I am prisoned close 
In his harsh service, mastered by his Hours, 
The leaves have not forgotten me: behold. 
They play with me like children who, 

awake. 
Find one most dear asleep and waken him 
To their own gladness from his sultry 

dream ; 
But nothing sweeter do they give to me 
Than thoughts of one who, far away, per- 
chance 
Watches like me the leaves and thinks of 

me, — 
While o'er her window sunnily the shower 
Touches all boughs to music, and the rose 
Beneath swings lovingly toward the drip- 

])ing pane. 
And she, whom Nature gave the freshest 

sense 
Of all her delicate life, rejoices in 
The joy of birds that use the hour to sing 
With breasts o'erfull of music, " Little 

Birds," 



She sings, " sing to my little Bird below ! " 
And with her child-like fancy, half-belief, 
She hears them sing and makes believe 

they obey. 
And the child, wakening, listens motionless. 



THE LOST GENIUS 

A Giant came to me when I was young, 

My instant will to ask — 
My earthly Servant, from the earth he 
sprung 

Eager for any task ! 

" What wilt thou, O my Master?" he began, 

" Whatever can be," I. 
" Say thy first wish — whate'er thou wilt I 
can," 

The Strong Slave made reply. 

" Enter the earth and bring its riches forth, 

For pearls explore the sea." 
He brought, from East and West and 
South and North, 

All treasures back to me ! 

" Build me a palace wherein I may dwell." 

" Awake and see it done," 
Spake his great voice at dawn. Oh, miracle 

That glittered in the sun ! 

" Find me the princess fit for my embrace, 

The vision of my breast ; 
For her search every clime and every race." 

My yearning arms were blessed ! 

" Get me all knowledge." Sages with 
their lore. 

And poets with their songs. 
Crowded my palace halls at every door. 

In still, obedient throngs ! 

" Now bring me wisdom." Long ago he 
went; 

(The cold task harder seems:) 
He did not hasten with the last content — 

The rest, meanwhile, were dreams ! 

Houseless and poor, on many a trackless 
road. 
Without a guide, I found 
A white-haired phantom with the world his 
load. 
Bending him to the ground ! 



JOHN JAMES PIATT — HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD 353 



" I bring thee wisdom, Master." Is it he, 

I marvelled then, in sooth ? 
" Thy palace-builder, beauty-seeker, see ! " 

I saw the Ghost of Youth ! 



PURPOSE 

Strong in thy steadfast purpose, be 
Like some brave master of the sea, 
Whose keel, by Titan pulses quickened, 
knows 
His will where'er he goes. 



Some isle, palm-roofed, in spiced Pacific air 
He seeks — though solitary zones apart, 
Its place long fixed on his deep-studied 
chart. 
Fierce winds, your wild confusion make J 
Waves, wroth with tide and tempest, 
shake 
His iron-wrought hull aside ! 
However driven, to that far island fair 
(His compass not more faithful than his 
heart) 
He makes his path the ocean wide — 
His prow is always there ! 



i$atmt pte^tott ^^pofforti 



PHANTOMS ALL 

Come, all you sailors of the southern waters. 
You apparitions of the Spanish main, 

Who dyed the jewelled depths blood-red 
with slaughters, 
You things of crime and g^in ! 

Come, caravel and pinnace, on whose daring 
Rose the low purple of a new world's 
shore ; 
Come from your dreams of desperate sea- 
faring 
And sun your sails once more. 

Build up again your stately height, storm- 
harried 
Santa Maria, crusted with salt stains; 
Come quick, you black and treacherous 
craft that carried 
Columbus home in chains ! 

And out of all your angry flames and flashes, 
Proud with a pride that only homeward 
yearned, 

Swim darkly up and gather from your ashes. 
You ships that Cortes burned ! 

Come, prows, whence climbing into light 
deiflc 

Undazzled Balboa planted o'er the plain. 
The lonely plain of the unguessed Pacific, 

The standard of great Spain. 

In Caribbean coves, dark vanished vessels. 
Lurking and hiding thrice a hundred 
years, 



Figure again your mad and merry wrestles, 
Beaks of the buccaneers ! 

Come, you that bore through boughs of 
dripping blossom, 

Ogeron with his headsman and his priest. 
Where Limousin with treasure in his bosom 

Dreamed, and in dreaming ceased. 

Barks at whose name to-day the nursling 
shivers, 
Come, with the bubble-rafts where men 
swept down 
Along the foam and fall of mighty riyers 
To sack the isthmian town ! 

Through dusky bayous known in old ro- 
mances 
In one great furtive squadron move, you 
host 
That took to death and drowning those 
free-lances. 
The Brethren of the Coast ! 

Come, Drake, come, Hawkins, to your sad 
employer, 
Come, L'Olonnois and Davila, again. 
Come, you great ships of Montbar the De- 
stroyer, 
Of Morgan and his men ! 

Dipping and slipping under shadowy high- 
lands. 
Dashing in haste the swifter fate to meet, 
Come from your wrecks on haunted keys 
and islands, 
Cervera's valiant fleet I 



354 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Galleons, and merchantmen, and sloops of 

O silent escort, follow in full train 
This passing phantom of an ancient glory, 
The Navy of Old Spain ! 



EVANESCENCE 

What 's the brightness of a brow ? 

What 's a month of pearls and corals ? 
Beauty vanishes like a vapor, 

Preach the men of musty morals ! 

Should the crowd then, ages since, 

Have shut their ears to singing Homer, 

Because the music fled as soon 
As fleets the violets' aroma ? 

Ah, for me, I thrill to see 

The bloom a velvet cheek discloses, 
Made of dust — I well believe it ! 

So are lilies, so are roses ! 



MUSIC IN THE NIGHT 

When stars pursue their solemn flight, 

Oft in the middle of the night, 

A strain of music visits me, 

Hushed in a moment silverly, — 

Such rich and rapturous strains as make 

The very soul of silence ache 

With longing for the melody; 

Or lovers in the distant dusk 
Of summer gardens, sweet as musk, 
Pouring the blissful burden out. 
The breaking joy, the dying doubt; 
Or revellers, all flown with wine, 
And in a madness half divine. 
Beating the broken tune about; 

Or else the rude and rolling notes 

That leave some strolling sailors' throats, 

Hoarse with the salt sprays, it may be. 

Of many a mile of rushing sea; 

Or some high-minded dreamer strays 

Late through the solitary ways, 

Nor heeds the listening night, nor me. 

Or how or whence those tones be heard. 
Hearing, the slumbering soul is stirred, 
As when a swiftly passing light 
Startles the shadows into flight; 



While one remembrance suddenly 
Thrills through the melting melody, — 
A strain of music in the night. 

Out of the darkness burst the song, 
Into the darkness moves along: 
Only a chord of memory jars. 
Only an old wound burns its scars, 
As the wild sweetness of the strain 
Smites the heart with passionate pain, 
And vanishes among the stars. 



A SIGH 

It was nothing but a rose I gave her, — 

Nothing but a rose 
Any wind might rob of half its savor, 

Any wind that blows. 

When she took it from my trembling fingers 

With a hand as chill, — 
Ah, the flying touch upon them lingers. 

Stays, and thrills them still ! 

Withered, faded, pressed between the 
pages. 

Crumpled fold on fold, — 
Once it lay upon her breast, and ages 

Cannot make it old ! 



THE PINES 

CouLDST thou, Great Fairy, give to me 
The instant's wish, that I might see 
Of all the earth's that one dear sight 
Known only in a dream's delight,' 
I would, beneath some island steep. 
In some remote and sun-bright deep. 
See high in heaven above me now 
A palm-tree wave its rhythmic bough ! 

And yet this old pine's haughty crown. 
Shaking its clouds of silver down. 
Whispers me snatches of strange tunes 
And murmur of those awful runes 
Which tell by subtle spell, and power 
Of secret sympathies, the hour 
When far in the dark North the snow 
Among great bergs begins to blow. 

Nay, thou sweet South of heats and 

balms, 
Keep all thy proud and plumy palms, 



MRS. SPOFFORD — LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON 355 



Keep all thy fragrant flowery ease, 
Thy purple skies, thy purple seas ! 
These boughs of blessing shall not fail, 
These voices singing in the gale. 
The vigor of these mighty lines: 
I will content me with my pines ! 



VOICE 

Said the archangels, moving in their glory. 
Seeing, the suns bend out along their 
courses. 
Seeing the earth swim up in vernal 
light. 
Seeing the year renew her ancient story, — 
Ask we here the Lord of all the finer 
forces 
To make us now a poet whose song 
shall reach our height ! 

Fain would we know the impulse ever flee- 

Fleeing in light o'er the battlements of 
even. 
Fleeing in love that lifts the universe 
like wings; 
Fain would we know the secret of our 
being, 
Blush for a moment with the inmost joy 
of heaven — 
Make us then a poet whose song shall 
tell these things ! 

From his rosy cloud, a Voice, — O won- 
der ! 
All my harp-strings tremble to sweet 
singing ! 
Life, O lovely life, is at the flood ! 
Hear the torrents' far melodious thunder, 



Hear the winds' long sweep, the joyous 
thickets ringing, 
Forests bow and murmur, and blossoms 
burst their bud ! 

Israfel, the Voice, was warbling, — Follow 
Where the wild swift music winds and 
doubles ! 
Follow ! When the sap whirls longing 
for the light. 
When the first thrush thrills the dusky 
hollow, 
Every heart on earth with jocund spirit 
bubbles. 
And every soul 's a poet whose song 
surmounts our height ! 



THE HUNT 

Wild stream the clouds, and the fresh wind 

is singing, 
Red is the dawn, and the world white with 

rime, — ' 

Music, O music ! The hunter's horn ringing ! 
Over the hilltop the mounted men climb. 

Flashing of scarlet, and glitter, and jingle. 
The deep bay, the rhythm of hoof and of 

cry, — 
Echo, O echo ! The winds rush and mingle ! 
Halloo, view halloo ! And the Hunt has 

swept by. 

Stay ! All the morning is hushed and is 

sober, 
Bare is the hilltop and sad as its wont, — 
Out of the ghost of a long-dead October 
Blows as the dust blows the ghost of the 

Hunt ! 



aioui^c €{)antilcr a^oulton^ 



TO-NIGHT 



Bend low, O dusky Night, 

And give my spirit rest. 

Hold me to your deep breast, 
And put old cares to flight. 
Give back the lost delight 

That once my soul possest, 

When Love was loveliest. 
Bend low, O dusky Night ! 

1 See, also, the Sonnet on p. 811 



Enfold me in your arms — 
The sole embrace I crave 
Until the embracing grave 

Shield me from life's alarms. 

I dare your subtlest charms; 
Your deepest spell I brave, 
O, strong to slay or save, 

Enfold me in your arms I 



3S6 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



A PAINTED FAN 

Roses and butterflies snared on a fan, 

All that is left of a summer gone by; 
Of swift, bright wings that flashed in the 
sun, 
And loveliest blossoms that bloomed to 
die! 

By what subtle spell did you lure them, 
here, 

Fixing a beauty that will not change, — 
Roses whose petals never will fall. 

Bright, swift wings that never will range ? 

Had you owned but the skill to snare as 
well 
The swift-winged hours that came and 
went. 
To prison the words that in music died. 
And fix with a spell the heart's content, 

Then had you been of magicians the chief; 

And loved and lovers should bless your 

art, 

If you could but have painted the soul of 

the thing, — 

Not the rose alone, but the rose's heart ! 

Flown are those days with their winged de- 
lights. 
As the odor is gone from the summer 
rose; 
Yet still, whenever I wave my fan, 

The soft, south wind of memory blows. 



THE SHADOW DANCE 

She sees her image in the glass, — 
How fair a thing to gaze upon ! 
She lingers while the moments run. 

With happy thoughts that come and pass. 

Like winds across the meadow grass 
When the young June is just begun: 

She sees her image in the glass, — 
How fair a thing to gaze upon I 

What wealth of gold the skies amass ! 

How glad are all things 'neath the 
sun ! 

How true the love her love has won ! 
She recks not that this hour will pass, — 
She sees her image in the glass. 



LAUS VENERIS 

A PICTURE BY BURNE JONES 

Pallid with too much longing. 
White with passion and prayer, 

Goddess of love and beauty. 
She sits in the picture there, — 

Sits with her dark eyes seeking 
Something more subtle still 

Than the old delights of loving 
Her measureless days to fill. • 

She has loved and been loved so often 
In her long, immortal years, 

That she tires of the worn-out rapture, 
Sickens of hopes and fears. 

No joys or sorrows move her. 
Done with her ancient pride; 

For her head she found too heavy 
The crown she has cast aside. 

Clothed in her scarlet splendor, 
Bright with her glory of hair, 

Sad that she is not mortal, — 
Eternally sad and fair, 

Longing for joys she knows not, 

Athirst with a vain desire, 
There she sits in the picture. 

Daughter of foam and fire. 



LAURA SLEEPING 

Come hither and behold this lady's face, 
Who lies asleep, as if strong Death had 

kissed 
Upon her eyes the kiss none can resist, 
And held her fast in his prolonged embrace ! 
See the still lips, which grant no answering 

grace 
To Love's fond prayers, and the sweet, 

carven smile. 
Sign of some dream-born joy which did 

beguile 
The dreaming soul from its fair resting- 
place ! 
So will she look when Death indeed has sway 
O'er her dear loveliness, and holds her fast 
In that last sleep which knows nor night 

nor day. 
Which hopes no future, contemplates no 

past; 



LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON 



357 



So will she look; but now, behold ! she 

wakes — 
Thus, from the Night, Dawn's sunlit beauty 

breaks. 



HIC JACET 

So Love is dead that has been quick so 

long ! 
Close, then, his eyes, and bear him to his 

rest. 
With eglantine and myrtle on his breast, 
And leave him there, their pleasant scents 

among ; 
And chant a sweet and melancholy song 
About the charms whereof he was possessed. 
And how of all things he was loveliest, 
And to compare with aught were him to 

wrong. 
Leave .him beneath the still and solemn 

stars, 
That gather and look down from their far 

place 
With their long calm our brief woes to 

deride. 
Until the Sun the Morning's gate unbars 
And mocks, in turn, our sorrows with his 

face ; — 
And yet, had Love been Love, he had not 

died. 



THE LAST GOOD-BY 

How shall we know it is the last good-by ? 
The skies will not be darkened in that 

hour, 
No sudden blight will fall on leaf or flower. 
No single bird will hush its careless cry, 
And you will hold my hands, and smile or 

sigh 
Just as before. Perchance the sudden 

tears 
In your dear eyes will answer to my fears; 
But there will come no voice of prophecy, — 
No voice to whisper, " Now, and not again, 
Space for last words, last kisses, and last 

prayer, 
For all the wild, unmitigated pain 
Of those who, parting, clasp hands with de- 
spair: " — 
" Who knows ? " we say, but doubt and 

fear remain. 
Would any cAoose to part thus unaware ? 



WERE BUT MY SPIRIT LOOSED 
UPON THE AIR 

Were but my spirit loosed upon the air, — 
By some High Power who could Life's 

chains unbind, 
Set free to seek what most it longs to find, — 
To no proud Court of Kings would I repair: 
I would but climb, once more, a narrow 

stair. 
When day was wearing late, and dusk was 

kind ; 
And one should greet me to my failings 

blind, 
Content so I but shared his twilight there. 
Nay ! well I know he waits not as of old, — 
I could not find him in the old-time place, — 
I must pursue him, made by sorrow bold. 
Through worlds unknown, in strange Ce- 
lestial race. 
Whose mystic round no traveller has told, 
From star to star, until I see his face. 



WE LAY US DOWN TO SLEEP 

We lay us down to sleep, 
And leave to God the rest: 

Whether to wake and weep 
Or wake no more be best. 

Why vex our souls with care ? 

The grave is cool and low, — 
Have we found life so fair 

That we should dread to go ? 

We 've kissed love's sweet, red lips. 
And left them sweet and red: 

The rose the wild bee sips 
Blooms on when he is dead. 

Some faithful friends we 've found; 

But they who love us best, 
When we are under ground. 

Will laugh on with the rest. 

No task have we begun 
But other hands can take; 

No work beneath the sun 
For which we need to wake. 

Then hold us fast, sweet Death, 

If so it seemeth best 
To Him who gave us breath 

That we should go to rest. 



358 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



We lay us down to sleep; 

Our weary eyes we close: 
Whether to wake and weep, 

Or wake no more, He knows. 



LOUISA MAY ALCOTT 

IN MEMORIAM 

As the wind at play with a spark 

Of fire that glows through the night, 
As the speed of the soaring lark 

That wings to the sky his flight. 
So swiftly thy soul has sped 

On its upward, wonderful way. 
Like the lark, when the dawn is red, 

In search of the shining day. 

Thou art not with the frozen dead 
Whom earth in the earth we lay, 

While the bearers softly tread, 
And the mourners kneel and pray; 



From thy semblance, dumb and stark, 
The soul has taken its flight — 

Out of the finite dark. 
Into the Infinite Light. 

LOVE'S RESURRECTION DAY 

Round among the quiet graves. 
When the sun was low. 

Love went grieving, — Love who saves: 
Did the sleepers know ? 

At his touch the flowers awoke, 

At his tender call 
Birds into sweet singing broke, 

And it did befall 

From the blooming, bursting sod 

All Love's dead arose, 
And went flying up to God 

By a way Love knows. 



IBiniam l^ape^ef Jt^arti 



TO 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 

ON THE DEATH OF LOWELL 

Dear singer of our fathers' day, 

Who lingerest in the sunset glow, 
Our grateful hearts all bid thee stay; 

Bend hitherward and do not go. 
Gracious thine age, thy youth was strong, 
For Freedom touched thy tongue with 
fire : 
To sing the right and fight the wrong 
Thine equal hand held bow or lyre. 
O linger, linger long. 
Singer of song. 

We beg thee stay; thy comrade star 

Which later rose is earlier set; 
What music and what battle-scar 

When side by side the fray ye met ! 
Thy trumpet and his drum and fife 

Gave saucy challenge to the foe 
In Liberty's heroic strife; 

We mourn for him, thou must not go ! 
Yet linger, linger long. 
Singer of song. 



We cannot yield thee ; only thou 

Art left to us, and one beside 
Whose silvered wisdom still can show 

How smiles and tears together bide. 
And we would bring our boys to thee, 

And bid them hold in memory crowned 
That they our saintliest bard did see. 

The Galahad of our table round. 
Then linger, linger long, 
Singer of song. 

The night is dark; three radiant beams 

Are gone that crossed the zenith sky; 
For one the water-fowl, meseems. 

For two the Elmwood herons cry. 
Ye twain that early rose and still 

Skirt low the level west along, 
Sink when ye must, to rise and fill 

The morrow's east with light and song. 
But linger, linger long, 
Singers of song. 



THE NEW CASTALIA 

Out of a cavern on Parnassus' side. 
Flows Castaly; and with the flood outblown 



WILLIAM HAYES WARD — IRVING BROWNE 



359 



From its deep heart of ice, the mountain's 

breath 
Tempers the ardor of the Delphian vale. 
Beside the stream from the black mould 

upsprings 
Narcissus, robed in snow, with ruby 

crowned. 
Long ranks of crocus, humble servitors, 
But clad in purple, mark his downcast face. 
The sward, moist from the flood, is pied 

with flowers, 
Lily and vetch, lupine and melilot, 
The hyacinth, cowslip, and gay marigold, 
While, on the border of the copse, sweet 

herbs. 
Anise and thyme, breathe incense to the bay 
And myrtle. Here thy home, fair Muse ! 

How soft 
Thy step falls on the grass whose morning 

drops 
Bedew thy feet ! The blossoms bend but 

break 
Not, and thy fingers pluck the eglantine, 
The privet and the bilberry; or frame 
A rustic whistle from a fresh-cut reed. 
Here is thy home, dear Muse, fed on these 

airs; 
The hills, the founts, the woods, the sky are 

thine ! 



But who are these ? A company of 

youth 
Upon a tesseled pavement in a court, 
Under a marble statue of a muse, 
Strew hot-house flowers before a mimic 

fount 
Drawn from a faucet in a rockery. 
With mutual admiration they repeat 
Their bric-a-brackery of rococo verse, 
Their versicles and icicles of song ! 
What know ye, verse-wrights, of the Poet's 

art? 
What noble passion or what holy heat 
Is stirred to frenzy when your eyes ad- 
mire 
The peacock feathers on a frescoed wall, 
Or painted posies on a lady's fan ? 

Are these thine only bards, young age, 

whose eyes 
Are blind to Heaven and heart of man; 

whose blood 
Is water, and not wine; unskilled in notes 
Of liberty, and holy love of land. 
And man, and all things beautiful; deep 

skilled 
To burnish wit in measured feet, to wind 
A weary labyrinth of labored rhymes. 
And cipher verses on an abacus ? 



Sirbing 25rotDnc 



MY NEW WORLD 

My prow is tending toward the west. 
Old voices growing faint, dear faces dim. 

And all that I have loved the best 
Far back upon the waste of memory swim. 

My old world disappears: 

Few hopes and many fears 
Accompany me. 

But from the distance fair 
A sound of birds, a glimpse of pleasant 
skies, 
A scent of fragant air. 
All soothingly arise 
In cooing voice, sweet breath, and merry 
eyes 
Of grandson on my knee. 
And ere my sails be furled, 
Kind Lord, I pray 
Thou let me live a day 
In my new world. 



AT SHAKESPEARE'S GRAVE 

(IGNATIUS DONNELLY LOQ.) 

Dismiss your apprehension, pseudo bard. 
For no one wishes to disturb these stones. 

Nor cares if here or in the outer yard 
They stow your impudent, deceitful 
bones. 

Your foolish-colored bust upon the wall. 
With its preposterous expanse of brow, 

Shall rival Humpty Dumpty's famous fall. 
And cheats no cultured Boston people 



Steal deer, hold horses, act your third-rate 
parts, 
Hoard money, booze, neglect Anne 
Hathaway, — 
You can't deceive us with your stolen arts; 
Like many a worthier dog, you 've had 
your day. 



360 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



I have expresst your history in a cyfer, 


She shelters him within that fragrant nest, 


I 've done your sum for all ensuing time, 


And scarce refrains from crushing him 


I don't know what you longer wish to lie for 


With tender violence. 


Beneath these stones or in your doggerel 


His rosebud mouth, each rosy limb 


rhyme. 


Excite such joy intense; 




Eocked on that gentle billow, 


Get up and flit, or plunge into the river, 


She sings into his ear 


Or walk the chancel with a ghostly 


A song that angels stoop to hear. 


squeak, 


Blest child and mother doubly blest ! 


You were an ignorant and evil liver. 


Such his first pillow. 


Who could not spell, nor write, nor read 




much Greek. 


A man outwearied with the world's mad 


Tho' you enslaved the ages by your spell, 


race 
His mother seeks again; 


And Fame has blown no reputation 


His furrowed face. 


louder. 


His tired gray head, 


Your cake is dough, for I by sifting well 


His heart of lead 


Have quite reduced your dust to Bacon- 


Resigned he yields; 


powder. 


She covers him in some secluded place, 




And kindly heals the earthy scar 


MAN'S PILLOW 


Of spade with snow and flowers, 




While glow of sun and gleam of star, 


A BABY lying on his mother's breast 


And murmuring rush of showers, 


Draws life from that sweet fount; 


And wind-obeying willow 


He takes his rest 


Attend his unbroken sleep ; 


And heaves deep sighs; 


In this repose secure and deep, 


With brooding eyes 


Forgotten' save by One, he leaves no trace. 


Of soft content 


Such his last pillow. 



Sluciu^ ^^arttjooti foote 



POETRY 

Something more than the lilt of the strain, 
Something more than the touch of the 
lute; 

For the voice of the minstrel is vain. 
If the heart of the minstrel is mute. 

ON THE HEIGHTS 

He crawls along the mountain walls, 
From whence the severed river falls; 
Its seething waters writhe and twist. 
Then leap, and crumble into mist. 
Midway between two boundless seas, 
Prone on a ragged reef he lies; 
Above him bend the shoreless skies, 
While helpless, on his bended knees. 
Into that awful gulf profound, 
Appalled, he peers with bated breath. 
Clutches with fear the yielding ground. 
And crouches face to face with death. 



The fearful splendor of the sight 

Begets in his bewildered brain 

A downwright torture of delight, 

The very ecstasy of pain. 

A sudden frenzy fills his mind, — 

If he could break the bonds that bind, 

And launch upon the waves of wind; 

Only to loose his hold and leap, 

Then, cradled like a cloud, to sleep 

Wind-rocked upon the soundless deep. 

With eyes upturned, he breaks the spell, 

And creeps from out the jaws of hell. 

Pohono's siren wiles beguile, — 

He drinks her kisses in the wind. 

He leaves the nether world behind. 

Up, and still upward, mile on mile, 

With muffled tramp, the pilgrim creeps 

Across the frozen winding-sheet. 

Where white-faced death in silence sleeps. 

Up, and still upward, to the light. 

Until at last his leaden feet 

Have mocked the eagle in its flight. 



LUCIUS HARWOOD FOOTE - THEODORE TILTON 



361 



Grim-browed and bald, Tis-sa-ack broods 

Above these white-robed solitudes. 

A mute, awe-stricken mortal stands 

Upon the fragment of a world, 

And, when the rifted clouds are curled, 

Sees far below the steadfast lands. 

DON JUAN 

Don Juan has ever the grand old air, 

As he greets me with courtly grace; 

Like a crown of glory the snow-white hair 

That halos his swarthy face; 

And he says, with a courtesy rare and fine, 

As he ushers me in at the door, 

" Panchita mia will bring us the wine, 

And the easa is yours, seilor." 

His fourscore years have a tranquil cast, 

For Time has tempered his heart and hand ; 

Though the seething tide of his blood ran 

fast 
When he ruled like a lord in the land. 
In the wild rodeo and mad stampede 
He rode, I am told. 
In the days of old. 

With his brown vaqueros at headlong speed. 
From the Toro Peaks to the Carmel Pass 
His cattle fed on the rich, wild grass; 
And far to the west. 
Where the sand-dunes rest 
On the rim of the heaving sea, 
From the Point of Pines to the river's mouth. 
From the Gabilan Hills l;o the bay on the 

south. 
He held the land in fee. 
It was never the same 
When the Gringos came, 
With their lust of gold and their greed of 

gain; 
And his humble cot. 
With its garden plot, 
Is all that is left of his wide domainb 



But he says with a courtesy rare and fine, 
As he ushers me in at the door, 
" Panchita mia will bring us the wine, 
And the casa is yours, seuor." 

EL VAQUERO 

Tinged with the blood of Aztec lands. 
Sphinx-like, the tawny herdsman stands, 
A coiled reata in his hands. 
Devoid of hope, devoid of fear, 
Half brigand and half cavalier, — 
This helot, with imperial grace, 
Wears ever on his tawny face 
A sad, defiant look of pain. 
Left by the fierce iconoclast 
A living fragment of the past, 
Greek of the Greeks he must remain. 

THE DERELICT 

Unmoored, unmanned, unheeded on the 

deep — 
Tossed by the restless billow and the breeze, 
It drifts o'er sultry leagues of tropic seas, 
Where long Pacific surges swell and sweep. 
When pale-faced stars their silent watches 

keep, 
From their far rhythmic spheres, the 

Pleiades, 
In calm beatitude and tranquil ease, 
Smile sweetly down upon its cradled sleep. 
Erewhile, with anchor housed and sails un- 
furled, 
We saw the stout ship breast the open 

main. 
To round the Stormy Cape, and span the 

world, 
In search of ventures which betoken gain. 
To-day, somewhere, on some far sea, we 

know 
Her battered hulk is heaving to and fro. 



Cfjeotiorc €ilton 



GOD SAVE THE NATION 

Thou who ordainest, for the land's salva- 
tion, 

Famine, and fire, and sword, and lamenta- 
tion, 

Now unto Thee we lift our supplication, — 
O, save the Nation ! 



By the great sign foretold of Thy appear- 
ing, 

Coming in clouds, while mortal men stand 
fearing, 

Show us, amid the smoke of battle clear- 
ing, 

Thy chariot nearing. 



362 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



By the brave blood that floweth like a river, 
Hurl Thou a thunderbolt from out Thy 



quiver 



Break Thou the strong gates ! every fetter 
shiver ! 

Smite and deliver ! 

Slay Thou our foes, or turn them to de- 
rision ! 
Then, in the blood-red Valley of Decision, 
Clothe Thou the fields, as in the prophet's 
vision. 

With peace Elysian ! 



CCEUR DE LION TO BERENGARIA 

O FAR-OFF darling in the South, 

Where grapes are loading down the vine. 
And songs are in the throstle's mouth. 

While love's complaints are here in mine. 
Turn from the blue Tyrrhenian Sea ! 
Come back to me ! Come back to me ! 

Here all the Northern skies are cold, 
And in their wintriness they say 

(With warnings by the winds foretold) 
That love may grow as cold as they ! 

How ill the omen seems to be ! 

Come back to me ! Come back to me ! 

Come back, and bring thy wandering 
heart — 

Ere yet it be too far estranged ! 
Come back, and tell me that thou art 

But little chilled, but little changed ! 

love, my love, I love but thee ! 
Come back to me ! Come back to me ! 

1 long for thee from morn till night; 

I long for thee from night till morn: 
But love is proud, and any slight 

Can sting it like a piercing thorn. 
My bleeding heart cries out to thee — 
Come back to me ! Come back to me ! 

Come back, and pluck the nettle out; 

Come kiss the wound, or love may die ! 
How can my heart endure the doubt ? 

Oh, judge its anguish by its cry ! 
Its cry goes piercingly to thee — 
Come back to me ! Come back to me ! 

What is to thee the summer long ? 
What is to thee the clustered vine ? 



What is to thee the throstle's song. 

Who sings of love, but not of mine ? 
Oh, turn from the Tyrrhenian Sea ! 
Come back to me ! Come back to me ! 

THE FLIGHT FROM THE 
CONVENT 

I SEE the star-lights quiver, 

Like jewels in the river; 

The bank is hid with sedge; 

What if I slip the edge ? 

I thought I knew the way 
By night as well as day: 
But how a lover goes astray ! 

The place is somewhat lonely — 
I mean for just one only; 
I brought the boat ashore 
An hour ago or more. 

Well, I will sit and wait; 

She fixed the hour at eight: 
Good angels ! bring her not too late ! 

To-morrow's tongues that name her 

Will hardly dare to blame her: 

A lily still is white 

Through all the dark of night: 

The morning sun shall show 
A bride as pure as snow. 
Whose wedding all the world shall know. 

O God ! that I sliould gain her ! 
But what can so detain her ? 
Hist, yelping cur ! thy bark 
Will fright her in the dark. 

What ! striking nine ? that 's fast ! 

Is some one walking past ? 
— Oho ! so thou art come at last ! 

But why thy long delaying ? 

Alack ! thy beads and praying ! 

If thou, a saint, dost hope 

To kneel and kiss the Pope, 

Then I, a sinner, know 
Where sweeter kisses grow — 
Nay, now, just once before we go ! 

Nay, twice, and by St. Peter 
The second was the sweeter ! 
Quick now, and in the boat ! 
Good-by, old tower and moat ! 

May mildew from the sky 
Drop blindness on the eye 
That lurks to watch our going by ! 



THEODORE TILTON — MARY EMILY BRADLEY 



363 



saintly maid ! I told thee 


How mated minds unmate, 


No convent-walls could hold thee. 


And friendship ends. 


Look ! yonder comes the moon ! 




We started none too soon. 


I clasped a woman's breast, — 


See how we pass that mill ! 


As if her heart, I knew, 


What ! is the night too chill ? 


Or fancied, would be true, — 


— Then I must fold thee closer still ! 


Who proved, alas ! she too ! 




False like the rest. 


SIR MARMADUKE'S MUSINGS 


I now am all bereft, — 




As when some tower doth fall, 


I WON a noble fame; 


With battlement, and wall, 


But, with a sudden frown, 


And gate, and bridge, and all, - 


The people snatched my crown, 


And nothing left. 


And, in the mire, trod down 




My lofty name. 


But I account it worth 




All pangs of fair hopes crossed 


I bore a bounteous purse; 


All loves and honors lost, — 


And beggars by the way 


To gain the heavens, at cost 


Then blessed me, day by day; 


Of losing earth. 


But I, grown poor as they, 




Have now their curse. 


So, lest I be inclined 




To render ill for ill, — 


I gained what men call friends; 


Henceforth in me instil, 


But now their love is hate. 


God, a sweet good-will 


And I have learned, too late, 


To all mankind. 



ill^arp oEmilp 25ratikH, 



A CHRYSALIS 

My little Madchen found one day 

A curious something in her play. 

That was not fruit, nor flower, nor seed; 

It was not anything that grew, 

Or crept, or climbed, or swam, or flew; 

Had neither legs nor wings, indeed ; 

And yet she was not sure, she said. 

Whether it was alive or dead. 

She brought it in her tiny hand 
To see if I would understand, 
And wondered when I made reply, 
" You 've found a baby butterfly." 
" A butterfly is not like this," 
With doubtful look she answered me. 
So then I told her what would be 
Some day within the chrysalis; 
How, slowly, in the dull brown thing 
Now still as death, a spotted wing, 
And then another, would unfold. 
Till from the empty shell would fly 
A pretty creature, by and by. 
All radiant in blue and gold. 



" And will it, truly ? " questioned she — 
Her laughing lips and eager eyes 
All in a sparkle of surprise — 
" And shall your little Madchen see ? " 
« She shall ! " I said. How could I tell 
That ere the worm within its shell 
Its gauzy, splendid wings had spread. 
My little Madchen would be dead ? 

To-day the butterfly has flown, — 
She was not here to see it fly, — 
And sorrowing I wonder why 
The empty shell is mine alone. 
Perhaps the secret lies in this: 
I too had found a chrysalis. 
And Death that robbed me of delight 
Was but the radiant creature's flight ! 

IN DEATH 

How still the room is ! But a while ago 
The sound of sobbing voices vexed my ears, 
And on my face there fell a rain of tears — 
I scarce knew why or whence, but now I 
know. 



364 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



For this sweet speaking silence, this sur- 
cease 
Of the dumb, desperate struggle after 

breath, 
This painless consciousness of perfect peace, 
Which fills the place of anguish — it is 

Death ! 
What folly to have feared it ! Not the best 
Of all we knew of life can equal this, 
Blending in one the sense of utter rest. 
The vivid certainty of boundless bliss ! 
O Death, the loveliness that is in thee. 
Could the world know, the world would 
cease to be. 



BEYOND RECALL 

There was a time when Death and I 
Came face to face together: 

I was but young indeed to die, 
And it was summer weather; 

One happy year a wedded wife. 

And I was slipping out of life. 

You knelt beside me, and I heard. 
As from some far-off distance, 

A bitter cry that dimly stirred 
My soul to make resistance. 

You thought me dead ; you called my name ; 

And back from Death itself I came. 



But oh ! that you had made no sign, 
That I had heard no crying ! 

For now the yearning voice is mine, 
And there is no replying: 

Death never could so cruel be 

As Life - — and you — have proved 
me ! 



to 



A SPRAY OF HONEYSUCKLE 

I BROKE one day a slender stem, 

Thick-set with little golden horns. 

Half bud, half blossom, and a gem — 
Such as one finds in autumn morns 

When all the grass with dew is strung — 

On every fairy bugle hung. 

Careless, I dropped it, in a place 

Where no light shone, and so forgot 

Its delicate, dewy, flowering grace. 
Till presently from the dark spot 

A charming sense of sweetness came, 

That woke an answering sense of shame. 

Quickly I thought, heart of mine, 
A lesson for thee plain to read: 

Thou needest not that light should shine, 
Or fellow-men thy virtues heed: 

Enough — if haply this be so — 

That thou hast sweetness to bestow ! 



THE BEAUTIFUL THE DEAD SOLOMON 



The Beautiful, which mocked his fond 
pursuing. 
The poet followed long; 
With passionate purpose the shy shadow 
wooing. 
And soul-betraying song. 

And still the fervor of his fond endeavor 
To him seemed poured in vain, 

And all in vain, forever and forever, 
The sorrow of his strain. 

But when at last he perished broken- 
hearted, 

The world, grown dark and dull. 
Bewailed the radiance with him departed 

Who was the Beautiful. 



King Solomon stood in the house of the 
Lord, 

And the Genii silently wrought around, 
Toiling and moiling without a word, 

Building the temple without a sound. 

Fear and rage were theirs, but naught. 
In mien or face, of fear or rage ; 

For had he guessed their secret thought. 
They had pined in hell for many an 
age. 

Closed were the eyes that the demons 

feared ; 
Over his breast streamed his silver 

beard ; 
Bowed was his head, as if in prayer, 



JOHN AYLMER DORGAN— FRANCES LAUGHTON MACE 365 



As if, through the busy silence there, 
The answering voice of God he heard. 

Solemn peace was on his brow, 
Leaning upon his staff in prayer; 

And a breath of wind would come and go, 

And stir his robe, and beard of snow. 
And long white hair; 

But he heeded not. 

Wrapt afar in holy thought. 

King Solomon stood in the house of the 
Lord, 

And the Genii silently wrought around. 
Toiling and moiling without a word. 

Building the temple without a sound. 

And now the work was done, 

Perfected in every part; 

And the demons rejoiced at heart, 

And made ready to depart, 
But dared not speak to Solomon, 
To tell him their task was done, 

And fulfilled the desire of his heart. 

So around him they stood with eyes of 
fire- 



Each cursing the king in his secret 
heart, — 
Secretly cursing the silent king, 

Waiting but till he should say " Depart; " 
Cursing the king, 
Each evil thing: 

But he heeded them not, nor raised his head ; 
For King Solomon was dead ! 

Then the body of the king fell down; 
For a worm had gnawed his staff in 
twain. 
He had prayed to the Lord that the house 

he planned 
Might not be left for another hand. 

Might not unfinished remain; 
So praying, he had died. 
But had not prayed in vain. 

So the body of the king fell down, 
And howling fled the fiends amain; 
Bitterly grieved, to be so deceived. 

Howling afar they fled; 
Idly they had borne his chain, 

And done his hateful tasks, in dread 
Of mystic penal pain, — 

And King Solomon was dead ! 



f rance^ ilaugjjton 09ace^ 



ALCYONE 



Among the thousand, thousand spheres that 

roll, 
Wheel within wheel, through never-ending 

space, 
A mighty and interminable race. 
Yet held by some invisible control. 
And led as to a sure and shining goal. 
One star alone, with still, unchanging face. 
Looks out from her perpetual dwelling- 
place. 
Of these swift orbs the centre and the soul. 
Beyond the moons that beam, the stars that 

blaze. 
Past fields of ether, crimson, violet, rose, 
The vast star-garden of eternity. 
Behold ! it shines with white immaculate 

rays. 
The home of peace, the haven of repose. 
The lotus-flower of heaven, Alcyone. 

1 See, also, 



II 

It is the place where life's long dream 

comes true; 
On many another swift and radiant star 
Gather the flaming hosts of those who war 
With powers of darkness; those stray ser- 
aphs, too. 
Who hasten forth God's ministries to do: 
But here no sounds of eager trumpets 

mar 
The subtler spell which calls the soul from 

far. 
Its wasted springs of gladness to renew. 
It is the morning land of the Ideal, 
Where smiles, transfigured to the raptured 

, sight, 
The joy whose flitting semblance now we 

see; 
Where we shall know, as visible and real, 
Our life's deep aspiration, old yet new, 
In the sky-splendor of Alcyone. 
p 684. 



366 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



What lies beyond we ask not. In that 

hour 
When first our feet that shore of beauty 

press, 
It is enough of heaven, its sweet success, 
To find our own. Not yet we crave the 

dower 
Of grander action and sublimer power; 
We are content that life's long loneliness 
Finds in love's welcoming its rich redress. 



And hopes, deep hidden, burst in perfect 

flower. 
Wait for me there, O loved of many 

days ! 
Though with warm beams some beckoning 

planet glows, 
Its dawning triumphs keep, to share with 

me: 
For soon, far winging through the starry 

maze, 
Past fields of ether, crimson; violet, rose, 
I follow, follow to Alcyone ! 



Jt^illiam i^cnrp FcnaBIe 



THE SCHOOL GIRL 

From some sweet home, the morning 
train 

Brings to the city. 
Five days a week, in sun or rain, 
Returning like a song's refrain, 

A school girl pretty. 

A wild flower's unaffected grace 

Is dainty miss's; 
Yet in her shy, expressive face 
The touch of urban arts I trace, — 

And artifices. 

No one but she and Heaven knows 

Of what she 's thinking: 
It may be either books or beaux, 
Fine scholarship or stylish clothes, 

Per cents or prinking. 

How happy must the household be, 
This morn that kissed her; 

Not every one can make so free; 

Who sees her, inly wishes she 
Were his own sister. 

How favored is the book she cons, 

The slate she uses. 
The hat she lightly doffs and dons, 
The orient sunshade that she owns, 

The desk she chooses ! 

Is she familiar with the wars 

Of Julius Csesar ? 
Do crucibles and Leyden jars, 
A.nd Frencji, and earth, and sun, and stars. 

And Euclid, please her ? 



She studies music, I opine; 

O day of knowledge ! 
And all the other arts divine. 
Of imitation and design, 

Taught in the college. 

A charm attends her everywhere, — 

A sense of beauty; 
Care smiles to see her free of care ; 
The hard heart loves her unaware; 

Age pays her duty. 

She is protected by the sky; 

Good spirits tend her; 
Her innocence is panoply; 
God's wrath must on the miscreant lie 

Who dares offend her ! 



MY CATBIRD 

A CAPRICCIO 

Prime cantante ! 

Scherzo ! Andante ! 

Piano, pianissimo ! 

Presto, prestissimo ! 

Hark ! are there nine birds or ninety and 

nine ? 
And now a miraculous gurgling gushes 
Like nectar from Hebe's Olympian bottle. 
The laughter of tune from a rapturous 

throttle ! 
Such melody must be a hermit-thrush's ! 
But that other caroler, nearer, 
Outrivalling rivalry with clearer 
Sweetness incredibly fine ! 
Is it oriole, red-bird, or blue-bird, 
Or some strange, un-Auduboned new bird ? 



VENABLE — ANNA CALLENDER BRACKETT 



367 



All one, sir, both this bird and that bird ; 


Or, disdaining his divine gift and art, 


The whole flight are all the same catbird ! 


Like an inimitable poet 


The whole visible and invisible choir you 


Who captivates the world's heart, 


see 


And don't know it. 


On one lithe twig of yon green tree. 


Hear him lilt ! 


Flitting, feathery Blondel ! 


See him tilt ! 


Listen to his rondel ! 




To his lay romantical, 


Then suddenly he stops, 


To his sacred canticle. 


Peers about, flirts, hops, 


Hear him lilting ! 


As if looking where he might gather up 


See him tilting 


The wasted ecstasy just spilt 


His saucy head and tail, and fluttering 


From the quivering cup 


While uttering 


Of his bliss overrun. 


All the difficult operas under the suu 


Then, as in mockery of all 


Just for fun; 


The tuneful spells that e'er did fall 


Or in tipsy revelry, 


From vocal pipe, or evermore shall rise, 


Or at love devilry, 


He snarls, and mews, and flies. 



3llnna Callcnbcr ^rachctt 



SONNETS 

IN HADES ^ 

Then saw I, with gray eyes fulfilled of 

rest, 
And lulling voice, a woman sweet, and 

she, — 
"Bear thou my word: I am of all most 

blest; 
Nor marvel that I am Eurydice. 
I stood and watched those slow feet go from 

me 
Farther and farther; in the light afar. 
All clear the figure grew — then suddenly 
Into my dark his face flashed like a 

star ! — 
And that was all. The purple vaporous 

door 
Left me triumphant over time and space ; 
Sliding across between forevermore. 
It could not hide the glory of that face. 
For me no room to doubt, no need to 

learn — 
He knew the whole — and could not choose 

hut turn 1 " 

» Copyright, 1899, by 



BENEDICITE 

" All Green Things on the earth, bless ye 

the Lord ! " 
So sang the choir while ice-cased branches 

beat 
The frosty window-panes, and at our feet 
The frozen, tortured sod but mocked the 

word, 
And seemed to cry like some poor soul in 

pain, 
" Lord, suffering and endurance fill my days; 
The growing green things will their Maker 

praise, — 
The happy green things, growing in warm 

rain ! 
So God lacks praise while all the fields are 

white ! " 
I said ; then smiled, remembering southward 

far 
How pampas-grass swayed green in summer 

light. 
Nay, God hears always from this swinging 

star. 
Decani and Cantoris, South and North, 
Each answering other, praises pouring forth 
Habper & Brothers. 



368 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



€fyatit0 ftfteicfe 3|ol)n^on 



THE MODERN ROMANS 

Under the slanting light of the yellow sun 

of October, 
A " gang of Dagos " were working close by 

the side of the car track. 
Pausing a moment to catch a note of their 

liquid Italian, 
Faintly I heard an echo of Rome's imperial 

accents. 
Broken-down forms of Latin words from 

the Senate and Forum, 
Now smoothed over by use to the musical 

lingua Romana. 
Then came the thought. Why, these are 

the heirs of the conquering Ro- 
mans; 
These are the sons of the men who founded 

the Empire of Csesar; 
These are they whose fathers carried the 

conquering eagles 
Over all Gaul and across the sea to Ultima 

Thule. 
The race-type persists unchanged in their 

eyes and profiles and figures, — 
Muscular, short, and thick-set, with promi- 
nent noses, recalling 
" Romanos rerum dominos, gentemque to- 

gatam" 
See, Labieuus is swinging a pick with rhyth- 
mical motion; 
Yonder one pushing the shovel might be 

Julius Csesar, 
Lean, deep-eyed, broad-browed, and bald, a 

man of a thousand; 
Further along there stands the jolly Hora- 

tius Flaccus; 
Grim and grave, with rings in his ears, see 

Cato the Censor; 
And the next has precisely the bust of 

Cneius Pompeius. 
Blurred and worn the surface, I grant, and 

the coin is but copper; 
Look more closely, you '11 catch a hint of 

the old superscription, — 
Perhaps the stem of a letter, perhaps a leaf 

of the laurel. 

On the side of the street, in proud and 

gloomy seclusion, 
"Bossing the job," stood a Celt, the race 

enslaved by the legions. 



Sold in the market of Rome, to meet the 
expenses of Caesar. 

And as I loitered, the Celt cried, " 'Tind to 
your worruk, ye Dagos, — 

Full up yer shovel, Paythro, ye haythen, 
I '11 dock yees a quarther." 

This he said to the one who resembled the 
great Imperator; 

Meekly the dignified Roman kept on pa- 
tiently digging. 

Such are the changes and chances the cen- 
turies bring to the nations. 

Surely, the ups and downs of this world 
are past calculation. 

How the races troop o'er the stage in end- 
less procession ! 

Persian, and Arab, and Greek, and Hun, and 
Roman, and Vandal, 

Master the world in turn and then disap- 
pear in the darkness. 

Leaving a remnant as hewers of wood and 
drawers of water. 

" Possibly," — this I thought to myself, — 
" the yoke of the Irish 

May in turn be lifted from us in the tenth 
generation. 

Now the Celt is on top, — but time may 
bring his revenges, 

Turning the Fenian down once more to be 
' bossed by a Dago.' " 



THEN AND NOW 

To me the earth once seemed to be 

Most beautiful and fair; 
All living creatures were to me. 

In wood or air, 
But kindred of a freer class ; 

I thrilled with keenest joy 
To find the young quail in the grass: — 

I was a boy. 

The robin in the apple-tree. 

The brown thrush in the wood, 
The meadow larks, all called to me; 

I understood: 
A sense of union with the whole. 

Of love for beast and bird. 
Deep chords from man's ancestral soul, 

Each wild note stirred. 



CHARLES FREDERICK JOHNSON— CELIA THAXTER 369 



All that is gone, and now I see 


For now I find my boy can see 


A blood-stained earth, where strife, 


The earth I used to know; 


Unceasing war, and cruelty. 


He sees it as it seemed to me 


Make room for life; 


So long ago. 


Each living thing a helpless prey 




To sharper tooth or claw, 


Poor little chap ! Sometimes I think 


Ten thousand murders every day 


I '11 tell him how he 's fooled, 


By nature's law. 


But when I see his eyes, I shrink, 




My purpose cooled: 


But still old earth its glamour casts 


Whj' should I cloud his soul with doubt« 


O'er the clear eyes of youth, 


Or youth's illusions mar ? 


And still the old illusion lasts 


Too soon, alas, he will find out 


In spite of truth; 


That life is war. 



€t\m €{jartcr 



SEAWARD 

TO 

How long it seems since that mild April 
night, 
When, leaning from the window, you 
and I 
Heard, clearly ringing from the shadowy 
bight. 
The loon's unearthly cry ! 

Southwest the wind blew, million little 
waves 
Ran rippling round the point in mellow 
tune. 
But mournful, like the voice of one who 
raves, 
That laughter of the loon ! 

We called to him, while blindly through 
the haze 
Uprose the meagre moon behind us, slow. 
So dim, the fleet of boats we scarce could 
trace, 
Moored lightly just below. 

We called, and, lo, he answered ! Half in 
fear 
We sent the note back. Echoing rock 
and bay 
Made melancholy music far and near; 
Sadly it died away. 

That schooner, you remember ? Flying 
ghost ! 
Her canvas catching every wandering 
beam, 



Aerial, noiseless, past the glimmering coast 
She glided like a dream. 

Would we were leaning from your window 
now, 
Together calling to the eerie loon. 
The fresh wind blowing care from either 
brow. 
This sumptuous night of June ! 

So many sighs load this sweet inland air, 
'T is hard to breathe, nor can we find re- 
lief: 

However lightly touched, we all must share 
This nobleness of grief. 

But sighs are spent before they reach your 
ear; 
Vaguely they mingle with the water's 
rune ; 
No sadder sound salutes you than the clear, 
Wild laughter of the loon. 

THE SANDPIPER 

Across the narrow beach we flit, 

One little sandpiper and I, 
And fast I gather, bit by bit. 

The scattered driftwood bleached and 
dry. 
The wild waves reach their hands for it. 

The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, 
As up and down the beach we flit, — 

One little sandpiper and I. 

Above our heads the sullen clouds 
Scud black and swift across the sky; 



37° 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds 
Stand out the white lighthouses high. 

Almost as far as eye can reach 
I see the close-reefed vessels fly, 

As fast we flit along the beach, — 
One little sandpiper and I. 

I watch him as he skims along, 

Uttering his sweet and mournful cry. 
He starts not at my fitful song, 

Or flash of fluttering drapery. 
He has no thought of any wrong; 

He scans me with a fearless eye: 
Staunch friends are we, well tried and 
strong, 

The little sandpiper and I. 

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night 

When the loosed storm breaks furiously ? 
My driftwood fire will burn so bright ! 

To what warm shelter canst thou fly ? 
I do not fear for thee, though wroth * 

The tempest rushes through the sky: 
For are we not God's children both. 

Thou, little sandpiper, and I ? 

SONG 

We sail toward evening's lonely star 

That trembles in the tender blue; 
One single cloud, a dusky bar. 

Burnt with dull carmine through and 
through, 
Slow smouldering in the summer sky. 

Lies low along the fading west. 
How sweet to watch its splendors die, 

Wave-cradled thus and wind-caressed ! 

The soft breeze freshens, leaps the spray 

To kiss our cheeks, with sudden cheer; 
Upon the dark edge of the bay 

Lighthouses kindle, far and near. 
And through the warm deeps of the sky 

Steal faint star-clusters, while we rest 
In deep refreshment, thou and I, 

Wave-cradled thus and wind-caressed. 

How like a dream are earth and heaven. 

Star-beam and darkness, sky and sea; 
Thy face, pale in the shadowy even. 

Thy quiet eyes that gaze on me ! 
O realize the moment's charm, 

Thou dearest ! we are at life's best. 
Folded in God's encircling arm. 

Wave-cradled thus and wind-caressed. 



MAY MORNING 

Warm, wild, rainy wind, blowing fit- 

fully. 
Stirring dreamy breakers on the slumberous 

May sea, 
What shall fail to answer thee ? What 

thing shall withstand 
The spell of thine enchantment, flowing over 

sea and land ? 

All along the swamp-edge in the rain I 

go; 
All about my head thou the loosened locks 

dost blow; 
Like the German goose-girl in the fairy 

tale, 
I watch across the shining pool my flock of 

ducks that sail. 

Redly gleam the rose-haws, dripping with 

the wet. 
Fruit of sober autumn, glowing crimson 

yet; 
Slender swords of iris leaves cut the water 

clear. 
And light green creeps the tender grass, 

thick-spreading far and near. 

Every last year's stalk is set with brown or 

golden studs; 
All the boughs of bayberry are thick with 

scented buds; 
Islanded in turfy velvet, where the ferns 

uncurl, 
Lo ! the large white duck's egg glimmers 

like a pearl ! 

Softly sing the billows, rushing, whispering 

low; 
Freshly, oh, deliciously, the warm, wild 

wind doth blow ! 
Plaintive bleat of new-washed lambs comes 

faint from far away; 
And clearly cry the little birds, alert and 

blithe and gay. 

O happy, happy morning ! O dear, familiar 

place ! 
warm, sweet tears of Heaven, fast falling 

on my face ! 
O well-remembered, rainy wind, blow all 

my care away. 
That I may be a child again this blissful 

morn of May. 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



371 



IBilliam IBinter 



MY QUEEN' 



He loves not well whose love is bold ! 

I would not have thee come too nigh: 
The sun's gold would not seem pure gold 

Unless the sun were in the sky; 
To take him thence and chain him near 
Would make his beauty disappear. 

He keeps his state, — keep thou in thine, 
And shine upon me from afar ! 

So shall I bask in light divine, 

That falls from love's own guiding star; 

So shall thy eminence be high. 

And so my passion shall not die. 

But all my life shall reach its hands 
Of lofty longing toward thy face. 

And be as one who speechless stands 
In rapture at some perfect grace ! 

My love, my hope, my all shall be 

To look to heaven and look to thee ! 

Thy eyes shall be the heavenly lights ; 

Thy voice the gentle summer breeze. 
What time it sways, on moonlit nights, 

The murmuring tops of leafy trees ; 
And I shall touch thy beauteous form 
In June's red roses, rich and warm. 

But thou thyself shalt come not down 
From that pure region far above; 

But keep thy throne and wear thy crown. 
Queen of my heart and queen of love ! 

A monarch in thy realm complete, 

And I a monarch — at thy feet ! 

ASLEEP 1 

He knelt beside her pillow, in the dead 

watch of the night. 
And he heard her gentle breathing, but her 

face was still and white. 
And on her poor, wan cheek a tear told 

how the heart can weep, 
And he said, " My love was weary — God 

bless her ! she 's asleep." 

He knelt beside her gravestone in the 
shuddering autumn night, 

And he heard the dry grass rustle, and his 
face was thin and white, 
* Copyright, 1892, by Macmillan & Co. 



And through his heart the tremor ran of 

grief that cannot weep, 
And he said, " My love was weary — God 

bless her ! she 's asleep." 

THE NIGHT WATCHi 

Beneath the midnight moon of May, 

Through dusk on either hand, 
One sheet of silver spreads the bay, 

One crescent jet the land; 
The black ships mirrored in the stream 

Their ghostly tresses shake — 
When will the dead world cease to dream ? 

When will the morning break ? 

Beneath a night no longer May, 

Where only cold stars shine. 
One glimmering ocean spreads away 

This haunted life of mine; 
And, shattered on the frozen shore, 

My harp can never wake — 
When will this night of death be o'er ? 

When will the morning break ? 



ON THE VERGE 2 

Out in the dark it throbs and glows — 
The wide, wild sea, that no man knows ! 
The wind is chill, the surge is white. 
And I must sail that sea to-night. 

You shall not sail ! The breakers roar 
On many a mile of iron shore, 
The waves are livid in their ivrath, 
And no man knows the ocean path. 

I must not bide for wind or wave; 
I must not heed, though tempest rave; 
My course is set, my hour is known, 
And I must front the dark, alone. 

Your eyes are wild, your face is pale, — 
This is no night for ships to sail! 
The hungry wind is moaning low, 
The storm is up — you shall not go ! 

'T is not the moaning wind you hear — 
It is a sound more dread and drear, 
A voice that calls across the tide, 
A voice that will not be denied. 

2 Copyright, 1895, by Macmillan & Co. 



372 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Your words are faint, your brow is cold, 
Your looks grow sudden gray and old, 
The lights hum dim, the casements shake, — 
Ah, stay a little, for my sake ! 

Too late ! Too late ! The vow you said 
This many a year is cold and dead, 
And through that darkness, grim and black, 
I shall but follow on its track. 

Remember all fair things and good 
That e'er were dreamed or understood, 
For they shall all the Past requite. 
So you but shun the sea to-night ! 

No more of dreams ! Nor let there be 
One tender thought of them or me, — 
For on the way that I must wend 
I dread no harm and need no friend ! 

The golden shafts of sunset fall 
Athwart the gray cathedral wall, 
While o'er its tombs of old renown 
The rose-leaves softly flutter doivn. 

No thought of holy things can save 
One relic now from Memory's grave, 
And, be it sun or moon or star, 
The light that falls must follow far ! 

/ mind the ruined turrets bold, 
The ivy, flushed with sunset gold. 
The dew-drenched roses, in their sleep, 
That seemed to smile, and yet to weep. 

There '11 be nor smile nor tear again; 
There '11 be the end of every pain ; 
There '11 be no parting to deplore. 
Nor love nor sorrow any more. 

/ see the sacred river's flow. 
The barge in twilight drifting slow. 
While o'er the daisied meadow swells 
The music of the vesper bells. 

It is my knell — so far away ! 
The night wears on — I must not stay ! 
My canvas strains before the gale — 
My cables part, and I must sail ! 



Loud roars the sea ! The dark has come : 
He does not move — his lips are dumb. — 
Ah, God 7-eceive, on shores of light. 
The shattered ship that sails to-night ! 

1 Copyright, 1892, by Macmillan & Co 



ADELAIDE NEILSON^ 

And oh, to think the sun can shine. 

The birds can sing, the flowers can bloom, 

And she, whose soul was all divine. 
Be darkly mouldering in the tomb: 

That o'er her head the night-wind sighs, 
And the sad cypress droops and moans; 

That night has veiled her glorious eyes, 
And silence hushed her heavenly tones: 

That those sweet lips no more can smile, 
Nor pity's tender shadows chase, 

With many a gentle, child-like wile, 
The rippling laughter o'er her face: 

That dust is on the burnished gold 
That floated round her royal head; 

That her great heart is dead and cold — 
Her form of fiie and beauty dead ! 

Roll on, gray earth and shining star, 
And coldly mock our dreams of blis^; 

There is no glory left to mar, 
Nor any grief so black as this ! 

ARTHURS 



(1872-1 



White sail upon the ocean verge, 
Just crimsoned by the setting sun, 

Thou hast thy port beyond the surge, 
Thy happy homeward course to run, 

And winged hope, with heart of fire. 

To gain the bliss of thy desire. 

I watch thee till the sombre sky 
Has darkly veiled the lucent plain; 

My thoughts, like homeless spirits, fly 
Behind thee o'er the glimmering main; 

Thy prow will kiss a golden strand, 

But they can never come to land. 

And if they could, the fanes are black 
Where once I bent the reverent knee; 

No shrine would send an answer back. 
No sacred altar blaze for me, 

No holy bell, with silver toll. 

Declare the ransom of my soul. 



T is equal darkness, here or there; 
For nothing that this world can give 



WILLIAM WINTER 



Z73 



Could now the ravaged past repair, 
Or win the precious dead to live ! 
Life's crumbling ashes quench its flame, 
And ever J place is now the same. 



Thou idol of my constant heart, 

Thou child of perfect love and light, 

That sudden from my side didst part. 
And vanish in the sea of night, 

Through whatsoever tempests blow 

My weary soul with thine would go. 

Say, if thy spirit yet have speech. 
What port lies hid within the pall. 

What shore death's gloomy billows reach. 
Or if they reach no shore at all ! 

One word — one little word — to tell 

That thou art safe and all is well ! 

The anchors of my earthly fate. 

As they were cast so must they cling; 

And naught is now to do but wait 

The sweet release that time will bring. 

When all these mortal moorings break. 

For one last voyage I must make. 

Say that across the shuddering dark — 
And whisper that the hour is near — 

Thy hand will guide iny shattered bark 
Till mercy's radiant coasts appear, 

Where I shall clasp thee to my breast. 

And know once more the name of rest. 



THE PASSING BELL AT 
STRATFORD 1 

(it is a tradition in STRATFORD-UPON- 
AVON THAT THE BELL OF THE GUILD 
CHAPEL WAS TOLLED AT THE DEATH AND 
FUNERAL OF SHAKESPEARE) 

Sweet bell of Stratford, tolling slow. 
In summer gloaming's golden glow, 
I hear and feel thy voice divine, 
And all my soul responds to thine. 

As now I hear thee, even so. 
My Shakespeare heard thee long ago, 
When lone by Avon's pensive stream 
He wandered, in his haunted dream: 

Heard thee — and far his fancy sped 
Through spectral caverns of the dead, 

1 Copyright, 1892, 



And strove — and strove in vain • 
The secret of the universe. 



to pierce 



As now thou mournest didst thou mourn 
On that sad day when he was borne 
Through the green aisle of honied limes, 
To rest beneath the chambered chimes. 

He heard thee not, nor cared to hear ! 
Another voice was in his ear. 
And, freed from all the bonds of men, 
He knew the awful secret then. 

Sweet bell of Stratford, toll, and be 
A sacred promise unto me 
Of that great hour when I shall know 
The path whereon his footsteps go. 
Stratford, 14 SeJ>t. 1S90. 



L H. B. 

DIED, AUGUST II, 1 898 

The dirge is sung, the ritual said, 
No more the brooding organ weeps. 

And, cool and green, the turf is spread 
On that lone grave where Bromley 
sleeps. 

Gone — in his ripe, meridian hour ! 

Gone — when the wave was at its crest ! 
And wayward Humor's perfect flower 

Is turned to darkness and to rest. 

No more those honest eyes will beam 
With torrid light of proud desire; 

No more those fluent lips will teem 
With Wit's gay quip or Passion's fire. 

Forever gone ! And with him fade 

The dreams that Youth and Friendship 
know — 

The frolic and the glee that made 
The golden time of Long Ago. 

The golden time ! Ah, many a face, — 
And his the merriest of them all, — 

That made this world so sweet a place, 
Is cold and still, beneath the pall. 

His was the heart that over-much 
In human goodness puts its trust, 

And his the keen, satiric touch 
That shrivels falsehood into dust, 
by Macmillan & Co. 



374 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD— DIVISION I 



His love was like the liberal air, — 
Embracing all, to cheer and bless; 

And every grief that mortals share 
Found pity in his tenderness. 

His subtle vision deeply saw, 

Through piteous webs of human fate, 

The motion of the sovereign law, 
On which all tides of being wait. 

No sad recluse, no lettered drone, 
His mirthful spirit, blithely poured, 

In many a crescent frolic shone, — 
The light of many a festal board. 

No pompous pedant, did he feign. 
With dull conceit of learning's store ; 

But not for him were writ in vain 

The statesman's craft, the spholar's lore. 

Fierce for the right, he bore his part 
In strife with many a valiant foe; 

But Laughter winged his polished dart, 
And Kindness tempered every blow. 

No selfish purpose marked his way; 

Still for the common good he wrought, 
And still enriched the passing day 

With sheen of wit and sheaves of thought. 



Shrine him, New-England, in thy breast ! 

With wild-flowers grace his hallowed 
bed. 
And guard with love his laurelled rest, 

Forever with thy holiest dead I 

For not in all the teeming years 
Of thy long glory hast thou known 

A being framed of smiles and tears. 
Humor and force, so like thine own ! 

And never did thy asters gleam, 

Or through thy pines the night-wind roll. 
To soothe, in death's transcendent dream, 

A sweeter or a nobler soul ! 



UNWRITTEN POEMS i 

Fairy spirits of the breeze — 
Frailer nothing is than these. 
Fancies born we know not where — 
In the heart or in the air; 
Wandering echoes blown unsought 
From far crystal peaks of thought; 
Shadows, fading at the dawn. 
Ghosts of feeling dead and gone: 
Alas ! Are all fair things that live 
Still lovely and still fugitive ? 



^arajj a^organ 25rpan §piatt 



AFTER WINGS 

This was your butterflj', you see, — 
His fine wings made him vain: 

The caterpillars crawl, but he 
Passed them in rich disdain. — 

My pretty boy says, " Let him be 
Only a worm again ! " 

O child, when things have learned to wear 
Wings once, they must be fain 

To keep them always high and fair: 
Think of the creeping pain 

Which even a butterfly must bear 



To be a worm 



agam 



MY BABES IN THE WOOD 

I KNOW a story, fairer, dimmer, sadder, 
Than any story painted in your books. 



You are so glad ? It will not make you 
gladder; 
Yet listen, with your pretty restless looks. 

« Is it a Fairy Story ? " Well, half fairy — 
At least it dates far back as fairies 
do. 

And seems to me as beautiful and airy; 
Yet half, perhaps the fairy half, is true. 

You had a baby sister and a brother, 

(Two very dainty people, rosily white, 
Each sweeter than all things except the 
other !) 
Older yet younger — gone from human 
sight ! 

And I, who loved them, and shall love them 
ever. 
And think with yearning tears how each 
light hand 



1 Copyright, 1892, by Macmillan & Co. 



SARAH MORGAN BRYAN PIATT 



375 



Crept toward bright bloom or berries — I 
shall never 
Know how I lost them. Do you under- 
stand ? 

Poor slightly golden heads ! I think I 
missed them 
First, in some dreamy, piteous, doubtful 
way; 
But when and where with lingering lips I 
kisssed them, 
My gradual parting, I can never say. 

Sometimes I fancy that they may have 
perished 
In shadowy quiet of wet rocks and 
moss, 
Near paths whose very pebbles I have cher- 
ished, 
For their small sakes, since my most 
lovely loss. 

I fancy, too, that they were softly cov- 
ered 
By robins, out of apple-flowers they 
knew. 
Whose nursing wings in far home sunshine 
hovered. 
Before the timid world had dropped the 
dew. 

Their names were — what yours are ! At 
this you wonder. 
Their pictures are — your own, as you 
have seen; 
And my bird-buried darlings, hidden under 
Lost leaves — why, it is your dead selves 
I mean ! 



THE WITCH IN THE GLASS 

"My mother says I must not pass 

Too near that glass; 

She is afraid that I will see 

A little witch that looks like me. 

With a red, red mouth to whisper low 

The very thing I should not know ! " 

" Alack for all your mother's care ! 

A bird of the air, 

A wistful wind, or (I suppose 

Sent by some hapless boy) a rose. 

With breath too sweet, will whisper low 

The very thing you should not know ! " 



TRADITION OF CONQUEST 

His Grace of Marlborough, legends say, 
Though battle-lightnings proved his 
worth, 

Was scathed like others, in his day, 
By fiercer fires at his own hearth. 

The patient chief, thus sadly tried, — 
Madam, the Duchess, was so fair, — 

In Blenheim's honors felt less pride 
Than in the lady's lovely hair. 

Once (shorn, she had coiled it there tc 
wound 

Her lord when he should pass, 't is said). 
Shining across his path he found 

The glory of the woman's head. 

No sudden word, nor sullen look, 
In all his after days, confessed 

He missed the charm whose absence took 
A scar's pale shape within his breast. 

I think she longed to have him blame. 
And soothe him with imperious tears ; — 

As if her beauty were the same, 

He praised her through his courteous 
years. 

But when the soldier's arm was dust. 
Among the dead man's treasures, where 

He laid it as from moth and rust. 
They found his wayward wife's sweet hair. 



THE WATCH OF A SWAN 

I READ somewhere that a swan, snow-white, 
In the sun all day, in the moon all night, 
Alone by a little grave would sit 
Waiting, and watching it. 

Up out of the lake her mate would rise, 
And call her down with his piteous cries 
Into the waters still and dim: — 
With cries she would answer him. 

Hardly a shadow would she let pass 
Over the baby's cover of grass; 
Only the wind might dare to stir 
The lily that watched with her. 

Do I think that the swan was an angel ? Oh, 
I think it was only a swan, you know, 



376 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



That for some sweet reason, winged and 
wild, 
Had the love of a bird for a child. 



IN CLONMEL PARISH 
CHURCHYARD 

AT THE GRAVE OF CHARLES WOLFE 

Where the graves were many, we looked 
for one. 
Oh, the Irish rose was red, 
And the dark stones saddened the setting 
sun 
With the names of the early dead. 
Then, a chUd who, somehow, had heard of 
him 
In the land we love so well, 
Kept lifting the grass till the dew was 
dim 
In the churchyard of Clonmel. 

But the sexton came. " Can you tell us 
where 

Charles Wolfe is buried ? " "I can. 
— See, that is his grave in the corner there. 

(Ay, he was a clever man. 
If God had spared him !) It 's many that 
come 

To be asking for him," said he. 
But the boy kept whispering, " Not a drum 

Was heard," — in the dusk to me. 

(Then the gray man tore a vine from the 
wall 

Of the roofless church where he lay, 
And the leaves that the withering year let 
fall 

He swept, with the ivy, away; 
And, as we read on the rock the words 

That, writ in the moss, we found. 
Right over his bosom a shower of birds 

In music fell to the ground.) 

. . . Young poet, I wonder did you care. 

Did it move you in your rest 
To hear that child in his golden hair, 

From the mighty woods of the West, 
Repeating your verse of his own sweet 
will, 

To the sound of the twilight bell, 
UTears after your beating heart was still 

In the churchyard of Clonmel ? 



A CALL ON SIR WALTER 
RALEIGH 

AT YOUGHAL, COUNTY CORK 

" Ay, not at home, then, didst thou say ? 

— And, prithee, hath he gone to court ? " 
" Nay ; he hath sailed but yesterday. 

With Edmund Spenser, from this port. 

" This Spenser, folk do say, hath writ 
Twelve cantos, called ' The Faerie 
Queene.' 

To seek for one to publish it. 

They go — on a long voyage, I ween." 

Ah me ! I came so far to see 

This rufi^ed and plumed cavalier, — 

He whom romance and history. 
Alike, to all the world make dear. 

And I had some strange things to tell 
Of our New World, where he hath 
been; 
And now they say — I marked them 
well — 
They say the Master is not in ! 

The knaves speak not the truth; I see 
Sir Walter at the window there. 

— That is the hat, the sword, which he 
In pictures hath been pleased to wear. 

There hangs the very cloak whereon 

Elizabeth set foot. (But oh. 
Young diplomat, as things have gone, 

Pity it is she soiled it so !) 

And there — but look ! he 's lost in smoke : 
(That weirdly charmed Virginia weed !) 

Make haste, bring anything; his cloak — 
They save him with a shower, indeed ! 

. . . Ay, lost in smoke. I linger where 
He walked his garden. Day is dim, 

And death-sweet scents rise to the air 
From flowers that gave their breath to 
him. 

There, with its thousand years of tombs, 
The dark church glimmers where he 
prayed; 

Here, with that high head shorn of plumes, 
The tree he planted gave him shade. 



SARAH MORGAN BRYAN PIATT— DAVID GRAY 



377 



That high head shorn of plumes ? Even so 
It stained the Tower, when gray with 
grief. 

tree he planted, as I go, 

For him I tenderly take a leaf. 

1 have been dreaming here, they say. 

Of one dead knight forgot at court. 
— And yet he sailed but yesterday, 

With Edmund Spenser, from this port. 



AN IRISH WILD-FLOWER 



(a barefoot child by 



castle) 



She felt, I think, but as a wild-flower can. 
Through her bright fluttering rags, the 
dark, the cold. 
Some farthest star, remembering what 
man 
Forgets, had warmed her little head with 
gold. 

Above her, hollow-eyed, long blind to tears, 
Leaf-cloaked, a skeleton of stone 
arose. . . . 
O castle-shadow of a thousand years, 

Where you have fallen — is this the 
thing that grows ? 



TRANSFIGURED 

Almost afraid they led her in 

(A dwarf more piteous none could find) : 
Withered as some weird leaf, and thin, 

The woman was — and wan and blind. 

Into his mirror with a smile — 
Not vain to be so fair, but glad — 

The South-born painter looked the while. 
With eyes than Christ's alone less sad. 



" Mother of God," in pale surprise 

He whispered, " what am I to paint ! " 

A voice, that sounded from the skies, 
Said to him, " Raphael, a saint." 

She sat before him in the sun: 

He scarce could look at her, and she 

Was still and silent. ... " It is done," 
He said. — " Oh, call the world to see ! " 

Ah, this was she in veriest truth — 
Transcendent face and haloed hair. 

The beauty of divinest youth. 
Divinely beautiful, was there. 

Herself into her picture passed — 
Herself and not her poor disguise. 

Made up of time and dust. ... At last 
One saw her with the Master's eyes. 



THE TERM OF DEATH 

Between the falling leaf and rose-bud's 
breath ; 
The bird's forsaken nest and her new 
song 
(And this is all the time there is for 
Death) ; 
The worm and butterfly — it is not long ! 



ENVOY 

Sweet World, if you will hear me now: 
I may not own a sounding Lyre 

And wear my name upon my brow 
Like some great jewel quick with fire. 

But let me, singing, sit apart, 

In tender quiet with a few, 
And keep my fame upon my heart, 

A little blush-rose wet with dew. 



E^atjiti <Bmp 



ON LEBANON 



Those days we spent on Lebanon, 
Held captive by the sieging snow — 

What bright things are forgot and gone, 
While these have kept their after-glow ! 



It seemed but monotone, in truth, 

That morning gaze o'er mountain mass, 

Our council with the hamlet's youth. 
The daily sortie up the pass, — 

And, last, your father's fire o' nights, 

Sweet Maiden of the Maronites ! 



378 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Sometimes the battling clouds would break, 

And from the rifted azure, fair, 
We saw an eagle slant, and take. 

Broad-winged, the stormy slopes of air. 
And once, when winter's stubborn heart 

Half broke in sunshine o'er the place, 
We held our bridles to depart, 

Eager and gleeful ; but your face — 
It did not mirror our delights, 

Maiden of the Maronites ! 

Bright face ! how Arab-wild would glow. 

Through shifting mood of storm or calm. 
Its beauty, born of sun and snow. 

Between the cedar and the palm. 
Nor, as I watched its changing thought, 

Could alien speech be long disguise; 
For ere one English phrase she caught 

I learned the Arabic of her eyes — 
The love-lore of their dusks and lights, 
My Maiden of the Maronites ! 

We parted soon, and upward fared, 

Snow-fettered, till the pass was ours, 
And all beneath us, golden-aired. 

Lay Syria, in a dream of flowers. 
Then spurred we, for before us burned 

White Baalbec's signal in the noon. 
And, ere to wayside camp we turned, 

'Twixt us and you and far Bh8,mdun, 
All Lebanon raised his icy heights. 
My Maiden of the Maronites ! 

Yet, still, those days on Lebanon 

As steadfast keep their after-glow 
As if they owned a summer sun, 

And roses blossomed in the snow; 
And when, with fire of heart and brain. 

And the quick pulse's speed increased, 
And wordless longings, come again 

Vision and passion of the East, 

1 dream — ah ! wild are Fancy's flights, 
O Maiden of the Maronites ! 

DIVIDED 

The half-world's width divides us; where 

she sits 
Noonday has broadened o'er the prairied 

West; 
For me, beneath an alien sky, unblest, 
The day dies and the bird of evening flits. 
Nor do I dream that in her happier breast 
Stirs thought of me. Untroubled beams 

the star, 



And recks not of the drifting mariner's 

quest. 
Who, for dear life, may seek it on mid-sea. 
The half-world's width divides us; yet, 

from far — 
And though I know that nearer may not 

be 
In all the years — yet, O beloved, to thee 
Goes out my heart, and, past the crimson 

bar 
Of Sunset, westward yearns away -^- 

away — 
And dieth towards thee with the dying day ! 



THE CROSS OF GOLD 

The fifth from the north wall; 
Row innermost; and the pall 
Plain black — all black — except 
The cross on which she wept, 
Ere she lay down and slept. 

This one is hers, and this — 
The marble next it — his. 
So lie in brave accord 
The lady and her lord, 
Her cross and his red sword. 

And, now, what seekst thou here; 
Having nor care nor fear 
To vex with thy hot tread 
These halls of the long dead, — 
To flash the torch's light 
Upon their utter night ? — 
What word hast thou to thrust » 
Into her ear of dust ? 

Spake then the haggard priest: 
" In lands of the far East 
I dreamed of finding rest — 
What time my lips had prest 
The cross on this dead breasto 

" And if my sin be shriven, 
And mercy live in heaven. 
Surely this hour, and here, 
My long woe's end is near — 
Is near — and I am brought 
To peace, and painless thought 
Of her who lies at rest, 
This cross upon her breast; 

" Whose passionate heart is cold 
Beneath this cross of gold; 



DAVID GRAY — THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 



379 



Who lieth, still and mute, 
In sleep so absolute. 
Yea, by this precious sign 
Shall sleep most sweet be mine; 



And I, at last, am blest. 
Knowing she went to rest 
This cross upon her breast." 



€fjoma^ ^^ailcp ^!tiric|) 



APPRECIATION 

To the sea-shell's spiral round 
'T is your heart that brings the sound : 
The soft sea-murmurs that you hear 
Within, are captured from your ear. 

You do poets and their song 

A grievous wrong. 

If your own soul does not bring 

To their high imagining 

As much beauty as they sing. 

TO HAFIZ 

Though gifts like thine the fates gave not 

to me, 
One thing, O Hafiz, we both hold in fee — 
Nay, it holds us; for when the June wind 

blows 
We both are slaves and lovers to the rose. 
In vain the pale Circassian lily shows 
Her face at her green lattice, and in vain 
The violet beckons, with unveiled face — 
The bosom's white, the lip's light purple 

stain, 
These touch our liking, yet no passion stir. 
But when the rose comes, Hafiz — in that 

place 
Where she stands smiling, we kneel down 

to her ! 



WHEN THE SULTAN GOES TO 
ISPAHAN 

When the Sultan Shah-Zaman 
Goes to the city Ispahan, 
Even before he gets so far 
As the place where the clustered palm- 
trees are, 
At the last of the thirty palace-gates, 
The flower of the harem, Rose-in-Bloom, 
Orders a feast in his favorite room — 
Glittering squares of colored ice, 



Sweetened with syrop, tinctured with spice, 
Creams, and cordials, and sugared dates, 
Syrian apples, Othmanee quinces, 
Limes, and citrons, and apricots. 
And wines that are known to Eastern 

princes ; 
And Nubian slaves, with smoking pots 
Of spiced meats and costliest fish 
And all that the curious palate could wish, 
Pass in and out of the cedarn doors; 
Scattered over mosaic floors 
Are anemones, myrtles, and violets, 
And a musical fountain throws its jets 
Of a hundred colors into the air. 
The dusk Sultana loosens her hair, 
And stains with the henna-plant the tips 
Of her pointed nails, and bites her lips 
Till they bloom again ; but, alas, that rose 
Not for the Sultan buds and blows, 
Not for the Sultan Shah-Zaman 
When he goes to the city Ispahan, 

Then at a wave of her sunny hand 
The dancing-girls of Samarcand 
Glide in like shapes from fairy-land, 
Making a sudden mist in air 
Of fleecy veils and floating hair 
And white arms lifted. Orient blood 
Runs in their veins, shines in their eyes. 
And there, in this Eastern Paradise, 
Filled with the breath of sandal-wood, 
And Khoten musk, and aloes and myrrh, 
Sits Rose-in-Bloom on a silk divan. 
Sipping the wines of Astrakhan; 
And her Arab lover sits with her. 
That 's when the Sultan Shah-Zaman 
Goes to the city Ispahan. 

Now, when I see an extra light. 
Flaming, flickering on the night 
From my neighbor's casement opposite, 
I know as well as I know to pray, 
I know as well as a tongue can say, 
That the innocent Sultan Shah-Zaman 
Has gone to the city Ispahan. 



38o 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD— DIVISION I 



PALABRAS CARl5J0SAS 

Good-night ! I have to say good-uight 
To such a host of peerless things ! 
Good-night unto the slender hand 
All queenly with its weight of rings; 
Good-night to fond, uplifted eyes, 
Good-night to chestnut braids of hair, 
Good-night unto the perfect mouth, 
And all the sweetness nestled there — 
The snowy hand detains me, then 
I '11 have to say Good-night again ! 

But there will come a time, my love, 

When, if I read our stars aright, 

I shall not linger by this porch 

With my farewells. Till then, good-night ! 

You wish the tim^e were now ? And I. 

You do not blush to wish it so ? 

You would have blushed yourself to death 

To own so much a year ago — 

What, both these snowy hands ! ah, then 
I '11 have to say Good-night again ! 

HEREDITY 

A SOLDIER of the Cromwell stamp, 
With sword and psalm-book by his side. 
At home alike in church and camp: 
Austere he lived, and smileless died. 

But she, a creature soft and fine — 

From Spain, some say, some say from 

France ; 
Within her veins leapt blood like wine — 
She led her Roundhead lord a dance ! 

In Grantham church they lie asleep; 
Just where, the verger may not know. 
Strange that two hundred years should keep 
The old ancestral fires aglow ! 

In me these two have met again; 
To each my nature owes a part: 
To one, the cool and reasoning brain ; 
To one, the quick, unreasoning heart. 

IDENTITY 

Somewhere — in desolate wind-swept 
space — 

In Twilight-land — in No-man's-land — 
Two hurrying Shapes met face to face. 

And bade each other stand. 



" And who are you ? " cried one a-gape, 
Shuddering in the gloaming light. 

" I know not," said the second Shape, 
" I only died last night ! " 



UNGUARDED GATES 

Wide open and unguarded stand our gateSj 
Named of the four winds, North, South, 

East, and West; 
Portals that lead to an enchanted land 
Of cities, forests, fields of living gold, 
Vast prairies, lordly summits touched with 

snow, 
Majestic rivers sweeping proudly past 
The Arab's date-palm and tlie Norseman's 

pine — 
A realm wherein are fruits of every zone, 
Airs of all climes, for, lo ! throughout the 

year 
The red rose blossoms somewhere — a rich 

land, 
A later Eden planted in the wilds, 
With not an inch of earth within its bound 
But if a slave's foot press it sets him free. 
Here, it is written. Toil shall have its wage, 
And Honor honor, and the humblest man 
Stand level with the highest in the law. 
Of such a land have men in dungeons 

dreamed, 
And with the vision brightening in their 

eyes 
Gone smiling to the fagot and the sword. 

Wide open and unguarded stand our 

gates. 
And through them presses a wild motley 

throng — 
Men from the Volga and the Tartar steppes, 
Featureless figures of the Hoang-Ho, 
Malayan, Scythian, Teuton, Kelt, and Slav, 
Flying the Old World's poverty and scorn; 
These bringing with them unknown gods 

and rites, — 
Those, tiger passions, here to stretch their 

claws. 
In street and alley what strange tongues 

are loud. 
Accents of menace alien to our air, 
Voices that once the Tower of Babel kn€w ) 

O Liberty, white Goddess ! is it well 
To leave the gates unguarded? On thy 
breast 



THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 



381 



Fold Sorrow's children, soothe the hurts of 

fate, 
Lift the down-troddeu, but with hand of 

steel 
Stay those who to thy sacred portals come 
To waste the gifts of freedom. Have a 

care 
Lest from thy brow the clustered stars be 

torn 
And trampled in the dust. For so of old 
The thronging Goth and Vandal trampled 

Rome, 
And where the temples of the Csesars stood 
The lean wolf unmolested made her lair. 



GUILIELMUS REX 

The folk who lived in Shakespeare's day 
And. saw that gentle figure pass 
By London Bridge, his frequent way — 
They little knew what man he was. 

The pointed beard, the courteous mien, 
The equal port to high and low, 
All this they saw or might have seen — 
But not the light behind the brow ! 

The doublet's modest gray or brown, 
The slender sword-hilt's plain device, 
What sign had these for prince or clown ? 
Few turned, or none, to scan him twice. 

Yet 't was the king of England's kings ! 
The rest with all their pomps and trains 
Are mouldered, half-remembered things — 
*T is he alone that lives and reigns ! 



SARGENT'S PORTRAIT OF 
EDWIN BOOTH AT "THE 
PLAYERS " 

That face which no man ever saw 
And from his memory banished quite, 
With eyes in which are Hamlet's awe 
And Cardinal Richelieu's subtle light 
Looks from this frame. A master's hand 
Has set the master-player here, 
In the fair temple that he planned 
Not for himself. To us most dear 
This image of him ! '* It was thus 
He looked; such pallor touched his cheek; 
With that same grace he greeted us — 
Nay, 't is the man, could it but speak ! " 



Sad words that shall be said some day — 
Far fall the day ! O cruel Time, 
Whose breath sweeps mortal things away, 
Spare long this image of his prime. 
That others standing in the place 
Where, save as ghosts, we come no more. 
May know what sweet majestic face 
The gentle Prince of Players wore ! 

TENNYSON 

Shakespeare and Milton — what third 
blazoned name 
Shall lips of after-ages link to these ? 
His who, beside the wild encircling seas, 
Was England's voice, her voice with one 

acclaim. 
For threescore years; whose word of praise 
was fame. 
Whose scorn gave pause to man's iniqui- 
ties. 

What strain was his in that Crimean war ? 
A bugle-call in battle; a low breath. 
Plaintive and sweet, above the fields of 
death ! 
So year by year the music rolled afar. 
From Euxine wastes to flowery Kandahar, 
Bearing the laurel or the cypress wreath. 

Others shall have their little space of time, 
Their proper niche and bust, then fade 

away 
Into the darkness, poets of a day; 
But thou, O builder of enduring rhyme. 
Thou shalt not pass ! Thy fame in every 
clime 
On earth shall live where Saxon speech 
has sway. 

Waft me this verse across the winter sea. 
Through light and dark, through mist 

and blinding sleet, 
O winter winds, and lay it at his feet; 
Though the poor gift betray my poverty. 
At his feet lay it: it may chance that he 
Will find no gift, where reverence is, un- 
meet. 

A SHADOW OF THE NIGHT 

Close on the edge of a midsummer dawn 
In troubled dreams I went from land to 

land, 
Each seven-colored like the rainbow's arc, 



383 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Regions where never fancy's foot had trod 
Till then; yet all the strangeness seemed 

not strange, 
At which I wondered, reasoning in my 

dream 
With two-fold sense, well knowing that I 

slept. 
At last I came to this our cloud-hung earth, 
And somewhere by the seashore was a 

grave, 
A woman's grave, new-made, and heaped 

with flowers; 
And near it stood an ancient holy man 
That fain would comfort me, who sorrowed 

not 
For this unknown dead woman at my feet. 
But I, because his sacred office held 
My reverence, listened; and 'twas thus he 

spake : 
" When next thou comest thou shalt find her 

still 
In all the rare perfection that she was. 
Thou shalt have gentle greeting of thy love ! 
Her eyelids will have turned to violets. 
Her bosom to white lilies, and her breath 
To roses. What is lovely never dies. 
But passes into other loveliness, 
Star-dust, or sea-foam, flower, or winged 

air. 
If this befalls our poor unworthy flesh, 
Think thee what destiny awaits the soul ! 
What glorious vesture it shall wear at 

last ! " 
While yet he spoke, seashore and grave and 

priest 
Vanished, and faintly from a neighboring 

spire 
Fell five slow solemn strokes upon my ear. 
Then I awoke with a keen pain at heart, 
A sense of swift unutterable loss. 
And through the darkness reached my hand 

to touch 
Her cheek, soft pillowed on one restful 

palm — 
To be quite sure ! 



SONNETS 

ENAMOURED ARCHITECT OF AIRY RHYME 

Enamoured architect of airy rhyme. 
Build as thou wilt; heed not what each 

man says: 
Good souls, but innocent of dreamers' ways. 



Will come, and marvel why thou wastest 

time; 
Others, beholding how thy turrets climb 
'Twixt theirs and heaven, will hate thee all 

thy days; 
But most beware of those who come to 

praise. 
O Wondersmith, O worker in sublime 
And heaven-sent dreams, let art be all in 

all; 
Build as thou wilt, unspoiled by praise or 

blame. 
Build as thou wilt, and as thy light is given : 
Then, if at last the airy structure fall. 
Dissolve, and vanish — take thyself no 

shame. 
They fail, and they alone, who have not 

striven. 



REMINISCENCE 

Though I am native to this frozen zone 
That half the twelvemonth torpid lies, or 

dead; 
Though the cold azure arching overhead 
And the Atlantic's never-ending moan 
Are mine by heritage, I must have known 
Life otherwhere in epochs long since fled; 
For in my veins some Orient blood is red. 
And through my thought are lotus blossoms 

blown. 
I do remember ... it was just at dusk, 
Near a walled garden at the river's turn 
(A thousand summers seem but yesterday !), 
A Nubian girl, more sweet than Khoorja 

musk, 
Came to the water-tank to fill her urn. 
And, with the urn, she bore my heart away ! 

OUTWARD BOUND 

I LEAVE behind me the elm-shadowed 

square 
And carven portals of the silent street, 
And wander on with listless, vagrant feet 
Through seaward-leading alleys, till the 

air 
Smells of the sea, and straightway then 

the care 
Slips from my heart, and life once more is 

sweet. 
At the lane's ending lie the white-winged 

fleet. 
O restless Fancy, whither wouldst thou 

fare ? 



THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 



383 



Here are brave pinions that shall take thee 

far — 
Gaunt hulks of Norway; ships of red 

Ceylon; 
Slim-masted lovers of the blue Azores ! 
'T is but an instant hence to Zanzibar, 
Or to the regions of the Midnight Sun; 
Ionian isles are thine, and all the fairy 

shores ! 

ANDROMEDA 

The smooth-worn coin and threadbare 

classic phrase 
Of Grecian myths that did beguile my 

youth, 
Beguile me not as in the olden days: 
I think more grief and beauty dwell with 

truth. 
Andromeda, in fetters by the sea, 
Star-pale with anguish till young Perseus 

came, 
Less moves me with her suffering than she, 
The slim girl figure fettered to dark shame. 
That nightly haunts the park, there, like a 

shade, 
Trailing her wretchedness from street to 

street. 
See where she passes — neither wife nor 

maid; 
How all mere fiction crumbles at her feet ! 
Here is woe's self, and not the mask of woe: 
A legend's shadow shall not move you so ! 

THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY 

Forever am I conscious, moving here, 
That should I step a little space aside 
I. pass the boundary of some glorified 
Invisible domain — it lies so near ! 
Yet nothing know we of that dim frontier 
Which each must cross, whatever fate be- 
tide. 
To reach the heavenly cities where abide 
(Thus Sorrow whispers) those that were 

most dear, 
Now all transfigured in celestial light ! 
Shall we indeed behold them, thine and 

mine, 
Whose going hence made black the noon- 
day sun ? — 
Strange is it that across the narrow night 
They fling us not some token, or make 

sign 
That all beyond is not Oblivion. 



SLEEP 

When to soft sleep we give ourselves 

away. 
And in a dream as in a fairy bark 
Drift on and on through the enchanted 

dark 
To purple daybreak — little thought we 

pay 

To that sweet bitter world we know by 

day. 
We are clean quit of it, as is a lark 
So high in heaven no human eye can 

mark 
The thin swift pinion cleaving through the 

gray. 
Till we awake ill fate can do no ill. 
The resting heart shall not take up again 
The heavy load that yet must make it 

bleed; 
For this brief space the loud world's voice 

is still, 
No faintest echo of it brings us pain. 
How will it be when we shall sleep in. 

deed? 



PRESCIENCE 

The new moon hung in the sky, 
The sun was low in the west, 
And my betrothed and I 

In the churchyard paused to rest — 
Happy maiden and lover. 
Dreaming the old dream over: 
The light winds wandered by, 

And robins chirped from the nest. 

And, lo ! in the meadow-sweet 

Was the grave of a little child, 
With a crumbling stone at the feet, 
And the ivy running wild — 
Tangled ivy and clover 
Folding it over and over: 
Close to my sweetheart's feet 
Was the little mound up-piled. 

Stricken with nameless fears, 

She shrank and clung to me, 
And her eyes were filled with tears 
For a sorrow I did not see : 

Lightly the winds were blowing, 
Softly her tears were flowing — 
Tears for the unknown years 
And a sorrow that was to be ! 



384 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



MEMORY 
My mind lets go a thousand things, 
Like dates of wars and deatlis of kings, 
And yet recalls the very hour — 
'T was noon by yonder village tower. 
And on the last blue noon in May — 
The wind came briskly up this way. 
Crisping the brook beside the road; 
Then, pausing here, set down its load 
Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly 
Two petals from that wild-rose tree. 

THALIA 

A MIDDLE-AGED LYRICAL POET IS SUPPOSED 
TO BE TAKING LEAVE OF THE MUSE OF 
COMEDY 

I SAY it under the rose — 

Oh, thanks ! — yes, under the laurel. 
We part lovers, not foes; 

We are not going to quarrel. 

We have too long been friends 
On foot and in gilded coaches, 

Now that the whole thing ends. 
To spoil our kiss with reproaches. 

I leave you; my soul is wrung; 

I pause, look back from the portal — 
Ah, I no more am young. 

And you, child, you are immortal ! 

Mine is the glacier's way, 

Yours is the blossom's weather — 

When were December and May 
Known to be happy together ? 

Before my kisses grow tame. 

Before my moodiness grieve you, 

While yet my heart is flame. 
And I all lover, I leave you. 

So, in the coming time. 

When you count the rich years over, 
Think of me in my prime. 

And not as a white-haired lover, 

Fretful, pierced with regret, 

The wraith of a dead Desire, 
Thrumming a cracked spinet 

By a slowly dying fire. 

When, at last, I am cold — 

Years hence, if the gods so will it — 
Say, " He was true as gold," 

And wear a rose in your fillet I 



Others, tender as I, 

Will come and sue for caresses. 
Woo you, win you, and die — 

Mind you, a rose in your tresses I 

Some Melpomene woo, 

Some hold Clio the nearest; 
You, sweet Comedy, — you 

Were ever sweetest and dearest ! 

Nay, it is time to go. 

W^hen writing your tragic sister 
Say to that child of woe 

How sorry I was I missed her. 

Really, I cannot stay. 

Though "parting is such sweet sor- 
row "... 
Perhaps 1 will, on my way 

Down-town, look in to-morrow ! 



QUATRAINS 



Black Tragedy lets slip her grim disguise 
And shows you laughing lips and roguish 

eyes; 
But when, unmasked, gay Comedy appears. 
How wan her cheeks are, and what heavy 

tears ! 

MEMORIES 

Two things there are with Memory will 

abide, 
Whatever else befall, while life flows by: 
That soft cold hand-touch at the altar side; 
The thrill that shook you at your child's 

first cry. 

CIRCUMSTANCE 

Linked to a clod, harassed, and sad 
With sordid cares, she knew not life was 

sweet 
Who should have moved in marble halls, 
and had 
Kings and crown-princes at her feet. 

ON READING 

Great thoughts in crude, unshapely verse 

set forth 
Lose half their preeiousness, and ever must. 
Unless the diamond with its own rich dust 
Be cut and polished, it seems little worth. 



THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 



385 



QUITS 

If my best wines mislike thy taste, 
Aud my best service win thy frown, 
Then tarry not, I bid thee haste; 
There 's many another Inn in town. 

AN ODE 

UN THE UNVEILING OF THE SHAW MEMO- 
RIAL ON BOSTON COMMON, MAY THIRTY- 
FIRST, 1897 

I 

Not with slow, funereal sound 
Come we to this sacred ground; 
Not with wailing fife and solemn muffled 
drum. 
Bringing a cypress wreath 

To lay, with bended knee, 

On the cold brows of Death — 

Not so, dear God, we come, 

But with the trumpets' blare 

And shot-torn battle-banners flung to air. 

As for a victory ! 

Hark to the measured tread of martial feet. 
The music and the murmurs of the street ! 

No bugle breathes this day 

Disaster and retreat ! — 

Hark, how the iron lips 

Of the great battle-ships 
Salute the City from her azure Bay ! 



Time was — time was, ah, unforgotten 

years ! — 
We paid our hero tribute of our tears. 

But now let go 
All sounds and signs aud formulas of woe: 
'Tis Life, not Death, we celebrate; 
To Life, not Death, we dedicate 
This storied bronze, whereon is wrought 
The lithe immortal figure of our thought, 
To show forever to men's eyes, 
Our children's children's children's eyes. 
How once he stood 
In that heroic mood. 
He and his dusky braves 
So fain of glorious graves ! — 
One instant stood, and then 
Drave through that cloud of purple steel 

and flame, 
Which wrapt him, held him, gave him not 

again. 
But in its trampled ashes left to Fame 
An everlasting name ! 



That was indeed to live — ^ 

At one bold swoop to wrest 

From darkling death the best 

That death to life can give. 

He fell as Roland fell 

That day at Roncevaux, 
With foot upon the ramparts of the foe ! 

A paean, not a knell, 

For heroes dying so ! 

No need for sorrow here, 

No room for sigh or tear. 
Save such rich tears as happy eyelids know. 

See where he rides, our Knight ! 

Within his eyes the light 
Of battle, and youth's gold about his brow; 
Our Paladin, our Soldier of the Cross, 

Not weighing gain with loss — 

World-loser, that won all 

Obeying duty's call ! 

Not his, at peril's frown, 

A pulse of quicker beat; 

Not his to hesitate 

And parley hold with Fate, 

But proudly to fling down 

His gauntlet at her feet. 

soul of loyal valor and white truth, 

Here, by this iron gate, 
Thy serried ranks about thee as of yore, 
Stand thou for evermore 
In thy undying youth ! 

The tender heart, the eagle eye ! 
Oh, unto him belong 
The homages of Song; 
Our praises and the praise 
Of coming days 
To him belong — 
To him, to him, the dead that shall not die ! 

A PETITION 

To spring belongs the violet, and the blown 
Spice of the roses let the summer own. 
Grant me this favor. Muse — all else with- 
hold- 
That I may not write verse when I am 
old. 

And yet I pray you, Muse, delay the time ! 
Be not too ready to deny me rhyme; 
And when the hour strikes, as it must, dear 
Muse, 

1 beg you very gently break the news. 



386 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



IBilliam SDean ipotoell^ 



IN EARLIEST SPRING 

Tossing his mane of snows in wildest 
eddies and tangles, 
Lion-like, March cometh in, hoarse, with 
tempestuous breath. 
Through all the moaning chimneys, and 
thwart all the hollows and angles 
Round the shuddering house, threating 
of winter and death. 

But in my heart I feel the life of the wood 
and the meadow 
Thrilling the pulses that own kindred 
with fibres that lift 
Bud and blade to the sunward, within the 
inscrutable shadow. 
Deep in the oak's chill core, under the 
gathering drift. 

Nay, to earth's life in mine some prescience, 
or dream, or desire 
(How shall I name it aright ?) comes for 
a moment and goes, — 
Rapture of life ineffable, perfect — as if in 
the brier, 
Leafless there by my door, trembled a 
sense of the rose. 



THE TWO WIVES 

The colonel rode by his picket-line 

In the pleasant morning sun, 
That glanced from him far off to shine 

On the crouching rebel picket's gun. 

From his command the captain strode 

Out with a grave salute, 
And talked with the colonel as he rode : — 

The picket levelled his piece to shoot. 

The colonel rode and the captain walked, — 

The arm of the picket tired ; 
Their faces almost touched as they talked, 

And, swerved from his aim, the picket 
fired. 

The captain fell at the horse's feet, 

Wounded and hurt to death, 
Calling upon a name that was sweet 

As God is good, with his dying breath. 

1 Copyright, 1895, by 



And the colonel that leaped from his horse 
and knelt 

To close the eyes so dim, 
A high remorse for God's mercy felt. 

Knowing the shot was meant for him. 

And he whispered, prayer-like, under his 
breath. 
The name of his own young wife : 
For Love, that had made his friend's peace 
with Death, 
Alone could make his with life. 



FROM GENERATION TO 

GENERATION 1 

Innocent spirits, bright, immaculate 
ghosts ! 

Why throng your heavenly hosts, 

As eager for their birth 

In this sad home of death, this sorrow- 
haunted earth ? 

Beware ! Beware ! Content you where 

you are, 
And shun this evil star. 
Where we who are doomed to die 
Have our brief being, and pass, we know 

not where or why. 

We have not to consent or to refuse ; 

It is not ours to choose : 

We come because toe must, 

We knoio not by what law, if unjust or if Just, 

The doom is on us, as it is on you, 

That nothing can undo ; 

And all in vain you warn : 

As your fate is to die, our fate is to be born. 



CHANGE 1 

Sometimes, when after spirited debate 
Of letters or affairs, in thought I go 
Smiling unto myself, and all aglow 
With some immediate purpose, and elate 
As if my little, trivial scheme were great. 
And what I would so were already so: 
Suddenly I think of her that died, and 
know, 

HAKPER & BK0THBR3. 



WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS 



387 



Whatever friendly or unfriendly fate 

Befall me in my hope or in my pride, 

It is all nothing but a mockery, 

And nothing can be what it used to be. 

When I could bid my happy life abide, 

And build on earth for perpetuity. 

Then, iu the deathless days before she died. 



IFi 

Yes, death is at the bottom of the cup. 
And every one that lives must drink it 

up; 
And yet between the sparkle at the top 
And the black lees where lurks that bitter 

drop, 
There swims enough good liquor. Heaven 

knows. 
To ease our hearts of all their other woes. 

The bubbles rise in sunshine at the brim; 
That drop below is very far and dim; 
The quick fumes spread, and shape us such 

bright dreams 
That in the glad delirium it seems 
As though by some deft sleight, if so we 

willed, 
That drop untasted might be somehow 

spilled. 



HOPEi 

We sailed and sailed upon the desert sea 
Where for whole days we alone seemed to 

be. 
At last we saw a dim, vague line arise 
Between the empty billows and the skies, 
That grew and grew until it wore the 

shape 
Of cove and inlet, promontory and cape; 
Then hills and valleys, rivers, fields, and 

woods, 
Steeples and roofs, and village neighbor- 
hoods. 
And then I thought, " Sometime I shall 

embark 
Upon a sea more desert and more dark 
Than ever this was, and between the gkies 
And empty billows I shall see arise 
Another world out of that waste and 



liike yonder land, 
. perhaps ! " 



Perhaps — perhaps — 

1 Copyright, 1895, by 



VISIONl 

Within a poor man's squalid home I stood: 
The one bare chamber, where his work-worn 

wife 
Above the stove and wash-tub passed her 

life. 
Next the sty where they slept with all their 

brood. 
But I saw not that sunless, breathless lair. 
The chamber's sagging roof and reeking 

floor; 
The smeared walls, broken sash, and bat- 
tered door; 
The foulness and forlornness everywhere. 
I saw a great house with the portals wide 
Upon a banquet room, and, from without. 
The guests descending in a brilliant line 
By the stair's statued niches, and beside 
The loveliest of the gemmed and silken 

rout 
The poor man's landlord leading down to 

dine. 



JUDGMENT DAYi 

Before Him weltered like a shoreless sea 
The souls of them that had not sought to be, 
With all their guilt upon them, and they 

cried. 
They that had sinned from hate and lust 

and pride, 
" Thou that didst make us what we might 

become. 
Judge us ! " The Judge of all the earth 

was dumb; 
But high above them, in His sovereign , 

place. 
He lifted up the pity of His face. 



WHAT SHALL IT PROFIT ?i 

If I lay waste and wither up with doubt 
The blessed fields of heaven where once 

my faith 
Possessed itself serenely safe from death; 
If I deny the things past finding out; 
Or if I orphan my own soul of One 
That seemed a Father, and make void the 

place 
Within me where He dwelt in power and 

grace. 
What do I gain by that I have undone ? 
Haepeb & Beothers. 



388 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



f orceptfje IBtlliBJon 



THE OLD SERGEANT 

(1863) 

•* Come a little nearer, Doctor, — thank 

you, — let me take the cup: 
Draw your chair up, — draw it closer, — 

just another little sup ! 
May be you may think I 'm better ; but I 'm 

pretty well used up : — 
Doctor, you've done all you could do, 

but I 'm just a going up ! 

" Feel my pulse, sir, if you want to, but it 
ain't much use to try : " — 

" Never say that," said the Surgeon as he 
smothered down a sigh; 

" It will never do, old comrade, for a sol- 
dier to say die ! " 
" What you say will make no difference. 
Doctor, when you come to die. 

" Doctor, what has been the matter ? " 
" You were very faint, they say; 

You must try to get to sleep now." " Doc- 
tor, have I been away ? " 

" Not that anybody knows of ! " " Doctor 
— Doctor, please to stay ! 
There is something I must tell you, and 
you won't have long to stay ! 

*' I have got my marching orders, and I 'm 

ready now to go; 
Doctor, did you say I fainted ? — but it 

could n't ha' been so, — 
For as sure as I 'm a sergeant, and was 

wounded at Shiloh, 
I 've this very night been back there, on 

the old field of Shiloh ! 

" This Is all that I remember: the last time 
the Lighter came, 

And the lights had all been lowered, and 
the noises much the same. 

He had not been gone five minutes before 
something called my name: 
* Orderly Sergeant — Robert Bur- 
ton ! ' — just that way it called my 
name. 

" And I wondered who could call me so 
distinctly and so slow, 



Knew it could n't be the Lighter, — he 
could not have spoken so, — 

And I tried to answer, ' Here, sir ! ' but I 
could n't make it go ; 
For I could n't move a muscle, and I 
could n't make it go ! 

"Then I thought: it 's all a nightmare, all 
a humbug and a bore; 

Just another foolish grape-vine,^ — and it 
won't come any more; 

But it came, sir, notwithstanding, just the 
same way as before: 
' Orderly Sergeant — Robert Bur- 
ton ! ' — even plainer than before. 

" That is all that I remember, till a sudden 

burst of light, 
And I stood beside the river, where we 

stood that Sunday night, 
Waiting to be ferried over to the dark 

bluffs opposite, 
When the river was perdition and all hell 

was opposite ! — 

" And the same old palpitation came again 

in all its power. 
And I heard a Bugle sounding, as from 

some celestial Tower; 
And the same mysterious voice said: 'It 

IS THE eleventh HOUR ! 

Orderly Sergeant — Robert Bur- 
ton — it is the eleventh hour ! ' 

" Doctor Austin ! — what day is this ? " 

" It is Wednesday night, you know." 
" Yes, — to-morrow will be New Year's, 

and a right good time below ! 
What time is it. Doctor Austin ? " " Nearly 

Twelve." " Then don't you go ! 
Can it be that all this happened — all this 

— not an hour ago ! 

" There was where the gunboats opened on 

the dark rebellious host; 
And where Webster semicircled his last 

guns upon the coast; 
There were still the two log-houses, just 
the same, or else their ghost, — 
And the same old transport came and 
took me over — or its ghost ! 
1 Canard. 



FORCEYTHE WILLSON 



3S9 



" And the old field lay before me all de- 
serted far and wide; 

There was where they fell on Prentiss, — 
there McClernand met the tide; 

There was where stern Sherman rallied, 

and where Hurlbut's heroes died, — 

Lower down, where Wallace charged 

them, and kept charging till he 

died. 

" There was where Lew Wallace showed 

them he was of the canny kin, 
There was where old Nelson thundered, 

and where Rousseau waded in ; 
There McCook sent 'em to breakfast, and 

we all began to win — 
There was where the grape-shot took me, 

just as we began to win. 

" Now, a shroud of snow and silence over 

everything was spread; 
And but for this old blue mantle and the 

old hat on my head, 
I should not have even doubted, to this 

moment, I was dead, — 
For my footsteps were as silent as the 

snow upon the dead ! 

" Death and silence ! — Death and silence ! 

all around me as I sped ! 
And, behold, a mighty Tower, as if builded 

to the dead, 
To the Heaven of the heavens lifted up its 

mighty head. 
Till the Stars and Stripes of Heaven all 

seemed waving from its head ! 

" Round and mighty-based it towered — up 

into the infinite — 
And I knew no mortal mason could have 

built a shaft so bright; 
For it shone like solid sunshine; and a 

winding stair of light 
Wound arouud it and around it till 

it wound clear out of sight ! 

" And, behold, as I approached it, — with a 
rapt and dazzled stare, — 

Thinking that I saw old comrades just as- 
cending the great Stair, — 

Suddenly the solemn challenge broke of, 
' Halt, and who goes there ! ' 
' I 'm a friend,' I said, ' if you are.' 
• Then advance, sir, to the Stair ! ' 



" I advanced ! — That sentry, Doctor, was 

Elijah Ballantyne ! — 
First of all to fall on Monday, after we had 

formed the line ! — 
' Welcome, my old Sergeant, welcome ! 

welcome by that countersign ! ' 
And he pointed to the scar there, imder 

this old cloak of mine ! 

" As he grasped my hand, I shuddered, 

thinking only of the grave; 
But he smiled and pointed upward with a 

bright and bloodless glaive: 
' That 's the way, sir, to Headquarters.' 

' What Headquarters ? ' Of the 

Brave.' 
'But the great Tower?' 'That,' he 

answered, 'is the way, sir, of the 

Brave ! ' 

" Then a sudden shame came o'er me at his 

uniform of light; 
At my own so old and tattered, and at his 

so new and bright: 
' Ah ! ' said he, ' you have forgotten the 

New Uniform to-night, — 
Hurry back, for you must be here at just 

twelve o'clock to-night ! ' 

" And the next thing I remember, you were 

sitting there, and I — 
Doctor — did you hear a footstep ? Hark ! 

— God bless you all ! Good by ! 
Doctor, please to give my muslagt and my 

knapsack, when I die. 
To my son — my son that 's coming, — 

he won't get here till I die ! 

" Tell him his old father blessed him as he 
never did before, — 

And to carry that old musket — hark ! a 
knock is at the door ! — 

Till the Union — See ! it opens ! " " Fa- 
ther ! father ! speak once more ! " 
" Bless you ! " gasped the old, gray Ser- 
geant, and he lay and said no more ! 

FROM "IN STATE" 

O KEEPEK of the Sacred Key, 
And the Great Seal of Destiny, 
Whose eye is the blue canopy. 
Look down upon the warring world, and 
tell us what the end will be. 



39° 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



" Lo, through the wintry atmosphere, 
On the white bosom of the sphere, 
A cluster of five lakes appear; 
And all the land looks like a couch, or 
warrior's shield, or sheeted bier. 

" And on that vast and hollow field, 
With both lips closed and both eyes 

sealed, 
A mighty Figure is revealed, — 
Stretched at full length, and stiff and stark, 

as in the hollow of a shield. 

" The winds have tied the drifted snow 
Around the face and chin ; and, lo ! 
The sceptred Giants come and go. 
And shake their shadowy crowns and say: 
' We always feared it would be so ! ' 

" She came of an heroic race : 
A giant's strength, a maiden's grace, 
Like two in one seem to embrace, 
And match, and blend, and thorough-blend, 
in her colossal form and face. 

" Where can her dazzling falchion be ? 
One hand is fallen in the sea; 



The Gulf -Stream drifts it far and free ; 

And in that hand her shining brand gleanas 

from the depths resplendently. 

" And by the other, in its rest. 
The starry banner of the West 
Is clasped forever to her breast; 
And of her silver helmet, lo, a soaring eagle 
is the crest. 

" And on her brow, a softened light. 
As of a star concealed from sight 
By some thin veil of fleecy white, — 
Or of the rising moon behind the rainy 
vapors of the night. 

" The Sisterhood that was so sweet, 
The Starry System sphered complete. 
Which the mazed Orient used to greet. 
The Four and Thirty fallen Stars glimmer 
and glitter at her feet. 

" And over her, — and over all, 
For panoply and coronal, — 
The mighty Immemorial, 
And everlasting Canopy and starry Arch 
and Shield of All." 



IBilliam ^eeti J^untington 



TELLUS 

.?> 
Why here, on this third planet from the 

Sun, 
Fret we and smite against our prison-bars ? 
Why not in Saturn, Mercury, or Mars, 
Mourn we our sins, the things undone and 

done ? 
Where was the soul's bewildering course 

begun ? 
In what sad land among the scattered stars 
Wrought she the ill which now forever 

scars 
By bitter consequence each victory won ? 
I know not, dearest friend, yet this I see. 
That thou for holier fellowships wast meant. 
Through some strange blunder thou art 

here; and we 
Who on the convict ship were hither sent. 
By judgment just, must not be named with 

thee 
Whose tranquil presence shames our dis- 
content. 



AUTHORITY 

Launched upon ether float the worlds se- 
cure. 

Naught hath the truthful Maker to con- 
ceal. 

No trestle-work of adamant or steel 

Is that high firmament where these en- 
dure. 

Patient, majestic, round their cynosure 

In secular procession see them wheel; 

Self-poised, but not self-centred, for they 
feel 

In each tense fibre one all-conquering 
lure. 

And need I fret me. Father, for that 
Thou 

Dost will the weightiest verities to swing 

On viewless orbits ? Nay, henceforth I 
cleave 

More firmly to the Credo; and my vow 

With readier footstep to thine altar bring, 
i As one who counts it freedom to believe. 



MARGARET ELIZABETH SANGSTER — HENRY AMES BLOOD 



391 



a^argaret ^iijafictf) ^angjGfter 



WHITTIERi 

His fourscore years and five 

Are gone, like a tale that is told. 

The quick tears start, there 's an ache at 
the heart, 
For we never thought him old. 

Straight as a mountain pine, 
With the mountain eagle's eye. 

With the hand-clasp strong, and the un- 
hushed song, 
Was it time for him to die ? 

Prophet and priest he stood 

In the storm of embattled years; 

The broken chain was his harp's refrain, 
And the peace that is balm for tears. 

The hills and the valleys knew 

The poet who kept their tryst. 
To our common life and our daily strife 

He brought the blessing of Christ. 



And we never thought him old, 

Though his locks were white as snow. 

O heart of gold, grown suddenly cold, 
It was not time to go ! 



AWAKENING « 

Never yet was a springtime. 
Late though lingered the snow. 

That the sap stirred not at the whisper 
Of the south wind, sweet and low; 

Never yet was a springtime 
When the buds forgot to blow. 

Ever the wings of the summer 
Are folded under the mould; 

Life, that has known no dying. 
Is Love's, to have and to hold. 

Till, sudden, the burgeoning Easter ! 
The song ! the green and the gold ! 



^cntp %mt^ 25looti 



COMRADES 

One steed I have of common clay, 

And one no less than regal; 
By day I jog on old Saddlebags, 

By night I fly upon Eagle : 
To store, to market, to field, to mill, 

One plods with patient patter. 
Nor hears along the far-off heights 

The hoofs of his comrade clatter. 

To field, to market, to mill he goes. 

Nor sees his comrade gleaming 
Where he flies along the purple hills. 

Nor the flame from his bridle streaming; 
Sees not his track, nor the sparks of fire 

So terribly flashing from it, 
As they flashed from the track of Alborak 

When he bravely carried Mahomet. 

One steed, in a few short years, will rest 

Under the grasses yonder; 
The other will come there centuries hence 

To linger and dream and ponder; 
1 Copyright, 1893, by Hakpbe & Brothers. 



And yet both steeds are mine to-day, 
The immortal and the mortal: 

One beats alone the clods of earth, 
One stamps at heaven's portal. 

SHAKESPEARE 

I WISH that I could have my wish to-night. 
For all the fairies should assist my flight 

Back into the abyss of years ; 
Till I could see the streaming light. 

And hear the music of the spheres 
That sang together at the joyous birth 

Of that immortal mind, 

The noblest of his kind, — 
The only Shakespeare that has graced our 
earth. 

Oh that I might behold 
Those gentle sprites, by others all unseen. 

Queen Mab and Puck the bold. 

With curtseys manifold 
Glide round his cradle every morn and e'en; 
= Copyright, 1897, by Harper & Brothers. 



392 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



That I might see the nimble shapes that ran 
And frisked and frolicked by his side, 
When school-hours ended or began, 
At morn or eventide; 

That I might see the very shoes he wore 
Upon the dusty street. 
His little gown and pinafore. 

His satchel and his schoolboy rig complete ! 

If I could have the wish I rhyme, 
Then should this night and all it doth contain 
Be set far back upon the rim of Time, 
And I would wildered be upon a stormy 

plain; 
The wanton waves of winter wind and 
storm 
Should beat upon my ruddy face, 
And on my streaming hair; 
And hags and witches multiform, 

And beldames past all saintly grace, 
Should hover round me in the sleety air. 

Then, hungry, cold, and frightened by 
these imps of sin. 
And breathless all with buffeting the 
storm, 
Betimes I would arrive at some old English 
inn. 
Wainscoted, high, and warm. 
The fire should blaze in antique chimney- 
place ; 
And on the high-backed settles, here and 

there. 
The village gossip and the merry laugh 
Should follow brimming cups of half-an'- 

half; 
Before the fire, in hospitable chair. 

The landlord fat should bask his shining 
face, 
And slowly twirl his pewter can; 
And there in his consummate grace, 
The perfect lord of wit, 
The immortal man, 
The only Shakespeare of this earth should 
sit. 



There, too, that Spanish galleon of a 
hulk, 
Ben Jonson, lying at full length, 
Should so dispose his goodly bulk 

That he might lie at ease upon his back, 
To test the tone and strength 

Of Boniface's sherris-sack. 

And there should be some compeers of 
these two, 
Rare wits and poets of the land. 
Whom all good England knew. 

And who are now her dear forget-me- 
nots; 

And they should lounge on Shakespeare's 
either hand, 

And sip their punch from queer old cans 
and pots. 

Oh, then, such drollery should begin, 
Such wit flash out, such humor run 
Around the fire in this old English inn, 
The veriest clod would be convulsed with 
fun; 
And Boniface's merry sides would ache. 
And his round belly like a pudding 
shake. 

Never since the world began 

Has been such repartee; 
And never till the next begins ; 

Will greater things be said by man, 

Than this same company 
Were wont to say so oft in those old English 



Dear artist, if you paint this picture mine. 

Do not forget the storm that roars 
Above the merry din and laughter within 
doors; 
But let some stroke divine 
Make all within appear more rich and 
warm. 
By contrast with the outer storm. 
23 April, 1864. 



a^arp a^ap0^ 2Dobgc^ 



THE TWO MYSTERIES 



We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so 

deep and still; 
The folded hands, the awful calm, the 

cheek so pale and chill; 

1 See, also, p. 587. 



The lids that will not lift again, though we 

may call and call; 
The sti'ange, white solitude of peace that 

settles over all. 



MARY MAPES DODGE 



393 



We know not what it means, dear, this 

desolate heart-pain; 
This dread to take our daily way, and walk 

in it again; 
We know not to what other sphere the 

loved who leave us go, 
Nor why we're left to wonder still, nor 

why we do not know. 

But this we know: Our loved and dead, if 

they should come this day, — 
Should come and ask us, " What is life ? " 

— not one of us could say. 
Life is a mystery as deep as ever death can 

be; 
Yet oh, how dear it is to us, this life we 

live and see ! 

Then might they say, — these vanished 
ones, — and blessed is the thought, 

" So death is sweet to us, beloved ! though 
we may show you naught; 

We may not to the quick reveal the mys- 
tery of death — 

Ye cannot tell us, if ye would, the mystery 
of breath." 

The child who enters life comes not with 

knowledge or intent, 
So those who enter death must go as little 

children sent. 
Nothing is known. But I believe that God 

is overhead; 
And as life is to the living, so death is to 

the dead. 



ONCE BEFORE 

Once before, this self-same air 
Passed me, though I know not where. 
Strange ! how very like it catne ! 
Touch and fragrance were the same; 
Sound of mingled voices, too. 
With a light laugh ringing through; 
Some one moving, — here or there, — 
Some one passing up the stair, 
Some one calling from without. 
Or a far-ofE childish shout, — 
Simple, home-like, nothing more, 
Yet it all hath been before ! 

No: not to-day, nor yesterday, 
Nor any day ! But far away — 
So long ago, so very far. 



It might have been on other star. 

How was it spent ? and where ? and when ? 

This life that went, yet comes again ? 

Was sleep its world, or death its shore ? 

I still the silent Past implore. 

Ah ! never dream had power to show 

Such vexing glimpse of Long Ago. 

Never a death could follow death 

With love between, and home, and breath. 

The spell has passed. What spendthrifts we, 
Of simple, household certainty ! 
What golden grain we trample low 
Searching for flowers that never grow ! 
Why, home is real, and love is real; 
Nor false our honest high ideal. 
Life, — it is bounding, warm, and strong, — 
And all my heart resounds with song. 
It must be true, whate'er befall. 
This and the world to come are all. 
And yet it puzzles me — alack ! — 
When lifd that could not be, comes back ! 



THE STARS 

They wait all day imseen by us, unfelt; 
Patient they bide Isehind the day's full glare; 
And we, who watched the dawn when they 

were there. 
Thought we had seen them in the daylight 

melt. 
While the slow sun upon the earth-line 

knelt. 
Because the teeming sky seemed void and 

bare. 
When we explored it through the dazzled 

air, 
We had no thought that there all day they 

dwelt. 
Yet were they over us, alive and true. 
In the vast shades far up above the blue, — 
The brooding shades beyond our daylight 

ken, — 
Serene and patient in their conscious light. 
Ready to sparkle for our joy again, — 
The eternal jewels of the short-lived night. 



EMERSON 

We took it to the woods, we two. 
The book well worn and brown. 

To read his words where stirring leaves 
Rained their soft shadows down. 



394 SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 


Yet as we sat and breathed the scene, 


With thrilling joy so rife, 


We opened not a page; 


I started lest, unknown. 


Enough that he was with us there, 


My step — ere it was flown — 


Our silent, friendly sage ! 


Had done it harm. 


His fresh " Rhodora " bloomed again; 


Why look up to the blue ? 


His " Humble-bee " buzzed near; 


The bird was gone, I knew. 


And oh, the " Wood-notes " beautiful 


Far out of sight. 


He taught our souls to hear. 


Steady and keen of wing, 




The slight, impassioned thing. 


So our unopened book was read; 


Intent on a goal unknown, 


And so, in restful mood, 


Had held its course alone 


We and our poet, arm in arm. 


In silent flight. 


Went sauntering through the wood. 






Dear little bird, and fleet, 




Flinging down at my feet 


SHADOW-EVIDENCE 


Shadow for song: 




More sure am I of thee — 


Swift o'er the sunny grass, 


Unseen, unheard by me — 


I saw a shadow pass 


Than of some things felt and known, 


With subtle charm, — 


And guarded as my own, 


So quick, so full of life, * 


All my life long. 



IBiHiam ^u\\ Wm^t 



FROM "THE BROOK" 

Through his million veins are poured 

The splendors of the heaven whence he fell. 

Wise above his thought is he: 

Deep things he has to tell 

To such as with a swift dexterity 

Can aptly gloss his tangled word. 

To an eternal song he frames his dance. 

And urges his advance 

Through numbers, motions intricately 

woven. 
No pedant's eye avails to scan 
The tumult of his foaming line. 
Whose music owns a rule divine 
To ears that once have caught the plan. 
His notes so delicate and fine 
My rudely fingered stop would crumble ; 
Only some easier tones I twine 
To wreathe my homely line. 
But, ah, the strength, the scope, the vision, 
. . . the cadence sweet ! 
What bard could in his rhyme imprison. 
Or bind with a melodious fetter. 
The prance of these fine feet ! 

•' Whence I come or whither I go, 
I little question, for well I know 



What I am, 't is joy to be ; 
Laughter is my vesture. 
And a god of revelry 
Beckons in my gesture. 
I love my proper daemon well; 
Summons he, I haste to follow 
Through balmy grove or grassy dell, 
Or mountain's tempest-haunted hollow. 

" Only to the sober eye 

The gods withdraw the curtains of the sky 

Pressed from an immortal vine. 

Temperance is eternal wine. 

Who drinks my liquors chaste and cool 

May slight the Heliconian pool: 

He has no need to steal a sip 

From Hafiz' bowl, or bathe his lip 

In honey pressed from Pindar's comb. 

Or taste of Bacchus' philtered foam. 

Or filch from Chaucer's bounteous grace 

Some liquid, limpid, purling phrase. 

He shall take with heavenly sleight 

In springe of couchant rhyme 

The holy syllables, that in their flight 

Skim the meads of Time, 

And sometimes tarry for a night. 

Lark-like they warble sweet and clear 

Up and down the bustling sphere : 



WILLIAM BULL WRIGHT — JOHN HAY 



395 



Happy he that skills to hear 
Their feathery oarage light. 

" Wide waves the harvest of sweet song, 
Long since the gods have sown the seed: 
Thither a thousand reapers throng, 
But since the flinty stalks grow strong 
Their sickles clip the easier weed. 
Strives one with sweat and sober heed. 
And limbs that ache and hands that bleed. 
To sheave some score of stems: 
The dear wise world, that loves the weed, 
His heavenly task condemns. 

*' I know ye, folk of birth and death, 
And of what troublous stuff is spun 
The feeble tissue of your breath: 
I know your fashions every one, — 
Your gait and features smooth or grim, 
From him that wakes a raw papoose 
To him whose tongue his parents loose 
With babbling of a Christian hymn. 
Well I know the woman's wail. 
Who comes, like bird from forage-quest, 
With loaded bill unto her nest. 
And finds her tender chitlings dead: 
What beak hath brought ye death instead ? 
Sorrowful numbers flock around, 
Earth-born ditties full of tears, 



The loss, the cross, the myriad fears 
That sting and madden and confound. 
Ye call the law of your own fate 
Rough to the feet, unfriendly, cold; 
But if the heart be free and bold, 
It turns to beautiful and great. 
Come forth and love it, and 't is thine, 
Works like a strong man by thy side; 
But dodge or weep or fall supine. 
Or take a lesser thought for guide, 
The pebble of the rill 
Has power to kill. 

" For my frolic lyre refuses 

Fellowship of moping muses: 

Touched by a single note of pain, 

His simple chords would crack atwaiu. 

He to heaven is strongly sworn 

To sound the hymns of utmost joy 

And things of joyance born; 

Pledged to a large, exulting song, 

To which no sombre tones belong, 

That, riding high above man's narrow state, 

Perfect and full, and beyond sweetness 

sweet. 
Teaches the maiden stars their heavenly 

gait. 
And those soft flashings of their silver 

feet." 



3[ol)n 1$ap 



LIBERTY 



What man is there so bold that he should 

say, 
" Thus, and thus only, would I have the 

Sea " ? 
For whether lying calm and beautiful. 
Clasping the earth in love, and throwing 

back 
The smile of Heaven from waves of ame- 
thyst; 
Or whether, freshened by the busy winds. 
It bears the trade and navies of the world 
To ends of use or stern activity; 
Or whether, lashed by tempests, it gives 

way 
To elemental fury, howls and roars 
At all its rocky barriers, in wild lust 
Of ruin drinks the blood of living things. 
And strews its wrecks o'er leagues of deso- 
late shore, — 



Always it is the Sea, and men bow down 
Before its vast and varied majesty. 

So all in vain will timorous ones essay 
To set the metes and bounds of Liberty. 
For Freedom is its own eternal law: 
It makes its own conditions, and in storm - 
Or calm alike fulfils the unerring Will. 
Let us not then despise it when it lies 
Still as a sleeping lion, while a swarm 
Of gnat-like evils hover round its head ; 
Nor doubt it when in mad, disjointed times 
It shakes the torch of terror, and its cry 
Shrills o'er the quaking earth, and in the 

flame 
Of riot and war we see its awful form 
Rise by the scaffold, where the crimson 

axe 
Rings down its grooves the knell of shud' 

dering kings. 
For ever in thine eyes, O Liberty, 



396 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD— DIVISION I 



Shines that high light whereby the world, is 

saved, 
And though thou slay us, we will trust in 

thee ! 



THE SURRENDER OF SPAIN 

Land of unconquered Pelayo ! land of the 

Cid Campeador ! 
Sea-girdled mother of men ! Spain, name 

of glory and power; 
Cradle of world-grasping Emperors, grave 

of the reckless invader, 
How art thou fallen, my Spain ! how art 

thou sunk at this hour ! 

Once thy magnanimous sons trod, victors, 
the portals of Asia, • 

Once the Pacific waves rushed, joyful thy 
banners to see; 

For it was Trajan that carried the battle- 
flushed eagles to Dacia, 

Cortes that planted thy flag fast by the utter- 
most sea. 

Hast thou forgotten those days illumined 

with glory and honor. 
When the far isles of the sea thrilled, to 

the tread of Castile ? 
When every land under heaven was flecked 

by the shade of thy banner, — 
When every beam of the sun flashed on thy 

conquering steel ? 

Then through red fields of slaughter, 
through death and defeat and disas- 
ter, 

Still flared thy banner aloft, tattered, but 
free from a stain; 

Now to the upstart Savoyard thou bendest 
to beg for a master. 

How the red flush of her shame mars the 
proud beauty of Spain ! 

Has the red blood run cold that boiled by 

the Xenil and Darro ? 
Are the high deeds of the sires sung to the 

children no more ? 
On the dun hills of the North hast thou 

heard of no plough-boy Pizarro ? 
Eoams no young swineherd Cortes hid by 

the Tagus' wild shore ? 

Once again does Hispania bend low to the 
yoke of the stranger ! 



Once again will she rise, flinging her gyves 
in the sea ! 

Princeling of Piedmont ! unwitting thou 
weddest with dowbt and with dan- 
ger, 

King over men who have learned all that it 
costs to be free. 



CHRISTINE 

The beauty of the northern dawns, 

Their pure, pale light is thine; 
Yet all the dreams of tropic nights 

Within thy blue eyes shine. 
Not statelier in their prisoning seas. 

The icebergs grandly move, 
But in thy smile is youth and joy. 

And in thy voice is love. 

Thou art like Hecla's crest that stands 

So lonely, proua, and high. 
No earthly thing may come between 

Her summit and the sky. 
The sun in vain may strive to melt 

Her crown of virgin snow. 
But the great heart of the mountain glows 

With deathless fire below. 



PIKE COUNTY BALLADS 

JIM BLUDSO OF THE PRAIRIE BELJ.E 

Wall, no ! I can't tell whar he lives, 

Becase he don't live, you see; 
Leastways, he 's got out of the habit 

Of livin' like you and me. 
Whar have you been for the last three year 

That you haven't heard folks tell 
How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks 

The night of the Prairie Belle ? 

He were n't no saint, — them engineers 

Is all pretty much alike, — 
One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill 

And another one here, in Pike ; 
A keerless man in his talk was Jim, 

And an awkward hand in a row, 
But he never flunked, and he never lied, — ' 

I reckon he never knowed how. 

And this was all the religion he had, — 

To treat his engine well; 
Never be passed on the river; 

To mind the pilot's bell; 



JOHN HAY 



397 



/^nd if ever the Prairie Belle took fire, — 

A thousand times he swore 
He 'd hold her nozzle agin the bank 

Till the last soul got ashore. 

All boats has their day on the Mississip, 

And her day come at last, — 
The Movastar was a better boat, 

But the Belle she loould nHhe passed. 
And so she come tearin' along that night — 

The oldest craft on the line — 
With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, 

And her furnace crammed, rosin and 
pine. 

The fire bust out as she clared the bar. 

And burnt a hole in the night, 
And quick as a flash she turned, and 
made 

For that wilier-bank on the right. 
There was runnin' and eursin', but Jim 
yelled out. 

Over all the infernal roar, 
" I '11 hold her nozzle agin the bank 

Till the last galoot's ashore." 

Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' 
boat 

Jim Bludso's voice was heard, 
And they all had trust in his cussedness. 

And knowed he would keep his word. 
And, sure 's you 're born, they all got off 

Afore the smokestacks fell, — 
And Bludso's ghost went up alone 

In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. 

He were n't no saint, — but at jedgment 

I 'd run my chance with Jim, 
'Longside of some pious gentlemen 

That would n't shook hands with him. 
He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing, — 

And went for it thar and then; 
And Christ ain't a going to be too hard 

On a man that died for men. 

LITTLE BREECHES 

I don't go much on religion, 

I never ain't had no show; 
But I 've got a middlin' tight grip, sir, 

On the handful o' things I know. 
I don't pan out on the prophets 

And free-will and that sort of thing, — 
But I b'lieve in God and the angels, 

Ever sence one night last spring. 



I come into town with some turnips. 

And my little Gabe come along, — 
No four-year-old in the county 

Could beat him for pretty and strong, — 
Peart and chipper and sassy. 

Always ready to swear and fight, — 
And I 'd larnt him to chaw terbacker 

Jest to keep his milk-teeth white. 

The snow come down like a blanket 

As I passed by Taggart's store; 
I went in for a jug of molasses 

And left the team at the door. 
They scared at something and started, — 

I heard one little squall. 
And hell-to-split over the prairie 

Went team. Little Breeches, and all. 

Hell-to-split over the prairie ! 

I was almost froze with skeer; 
But we rousted up some torches. 

And sarched for 'em far and near. 
At last we struck bosses and wagon, 

Snowed under a soft white mound, 
Upsot, dead beat, — but of little Gabe 

No hide nor hair was found. 

And here all hope soured on me 

Of my fellow-critter's aid ; — 
I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones, 

Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed. 

By this, the torches was played out, • 

And me and Isrul Parr 
Went off for some wood to a sheepfold 

That he said was somewhar thar. 

We found it at last, and a little shed 

Where they shut up the lambs at night. 
We looked in and seen them huddled thar, 

So warm and sleepy and white ; 
And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped, 

As peart as ever you see, 
" I want a chaw of terbacker. 

And that 's what 's the matter of me." 

How did he git thar ? Angels. 

He could never have walked in that 
storm : 
They jest scooped down and toted him 

To whar it was safe and warm. 
And I think that saving a little child, 

And fetching him to his own, 
Is a derned sight better business 

Than loafing around The Throne. 



398 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



THE STIRRUP-CUP 

My short and happy day is done, 
The long and dreary night comes on, 
And at my door the pale horse stands 
To carry me to unknown lands. 

His whinny shrill, his pawing hoof, 
Sound dreadful as a gathering storm ; 
And I must leave this sheltering roof 
And joys of life so soft and warm. 



Tender and warm the joys of life, — 
Good friends, the faithful and the true; 
My rosy children and my wife, 
So sweet to kiss, so fair to view, — 

So sweet to kiss, so fair to view: 

The night comes down, the lights burn 

blue; 
And at my door the pale horse stands 
To bear me forth to unknown lands. 



vJEDna SDcaii ^^roctor 



FROM "THE SONG OF THE 
ANCIENT PEOPLE" 

We are the Ancient People; 

Our father is the Sun; 
Our mother, the Earth, where the mountains 
tower 

And the rivers seaward run; 
The stars are the children of the sky, 

The red men of the plain; 
And ages over us both had rolled 

Before you crossed the main; — 
For we are the Ancient People, 

Born with the wind and rain. 

And ours is the ancient wisdom. 

The lore of Earth and cloud: — 
We know what the awful lightnings mean, 
Wf-lo-lo-a-ne with arrows keen, 

And the thunder crashing loud; 
And why with his glorious, burning shield 

His face the Sun-God hides, 
As, glad from the east, while night recedes, 
Over the Path of Day he speeds 

To his home in the ocean tides ; 
For the Deathless One at eve must die. 
To flame anew in the nether sky, — 
Must die, to mount when the Morning Star, 
First of his warrior-host ,afar, 

Bold at the dawning rides ! 
And we carry our new-born children forth 

His earliest beams to face, 
And pray he will make them strong and 

brave 
As he looks from his shining place, 
Wise in council and firm in war. 
And fleet as the wind in the chase ; 
A.nd why the Moon, the Mother of Souls, 

On summer nights serene, 



Fair from the azure vault of heaven 

To Earth will fondly lean, 
While her sister laughs from the tranquil 
lake. 
Soft-robed in rippling sheen; 
For the Moon is the bride of the glowing 
Sun, 
But the Goddess of Love is she 
Who beckons and smiles from the placid 
depths 
Of the lake and the shell-strown sea. 

We know why the down of the Northland 
drifts 

O'er wood and waste and hill; 
And how the light-wiuged butterflies 

To the brown fields summer bear. 
And the balmy breath of the Corn-maids 
floats 

In June's enchanted air; 
And when to pluck the Medicine flowers 

On the brow of the mountain peak. 
The lilies of Te-na-tsa-li, 

That brighten the faded cheek, 
And heal the wounds of the warrior 

And the hunter worn and weak; 
And where in the hills the crystal stones 

And the turquoise blue to seek; 
And how to plant the earliest maize. 

Sprinkling the sacred meal. 
And setting our prayer-plumes in the midst 

As full to the east we kneel, — 
The plumes whose life shall waft our wish 

To the heights the skies conceal; 
Nay, when the stalks are parched on the 
plain 

And the deepest springs are dry, 
And the Water-God, the jewelled toad, 

Is lost to every eye, 



EDNA DEAN PROCTOR — CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES 



399 



With song and dance and voice of flutes 

That soothe the Regions Seven, 
We can call the blessed summer showers 

Doven from the listening heaven ! 
For ours is the lore of a dateless past, 

And we have power thereby, — 
Power which our vanished fathers sought 

Through toil and watch and pain, 
Till the spirits of wood and wave and air 

To grant us help were fain; 
For we are the Ancient People, 

Born with the wind and rain. 

HEAVEN, O LORD, I CANNOT 
LOSE 

Now Summer finds her perfect prime ; 

Sweet blows the wind from western calms; 
On every bower red roses climb; 

The meadows sleep in mingled balms. 
Nor stream, nor bank the wayside by, 

But lilies float and daisies throng; 
Nor space of blue and sunny sky 

That is not cleft with soaring song. 
O flowery morns, O tuneful eves, 

Fly swift ! my soul ye cannot fill ! 
Bring the ripe fruit, the garnered sheaves. 

The drifting snows on plain and hill. 
Alike, to me, fall frosts and dews; 
But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose ! 

Warm hands to-day are clasped in mine; 

Fond hearts my mirth or mourning share; 
And, over hope's horizon line. 

The future dawns, serenely fair. 
Yet still, though fervent vow denies, 

I know the rapture will not stay; 
Some wind of grief or doubt will rise 

And turn my rosy sky to gray. 



I shall awake, in rainy morn. 

To find my hearth left lone and drear; 
Thus, half in sadness, half in scorn, 

I let my life burn on as clear 
Though friends grow cold or fond love 

woos; 
But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose ! 

In golden hours the angel Peace 

Comes down and broods me with her 
wings : 
I gain from sorrow sweet release; 

I mate me with divinest things; 
When shapes of guilt and gloom arise 

And far the radiant angel flees. 
My song is lost in mournful sighs. 

My wine of triumph left but lees; 
In vain for me her pinions shine. 

And pure, celestial days begin; 
Earth's passion-flowers I still must twine, 

Nor braid one beauteous lily in. 
Ah ! is it good or ill I choose ? 
But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose ! 

So wait I. Every day that dies 

With flush and fragrance born of June, 
I know shall more resplendent rise 

Where summer needs nor sun noi 
moon. 
And every bud, on love's low tree, 

Whose mocking crimson flames and falls, 
In fullest flower I yet shall see 

High-blooming by the jasper walls. 
Nay, every sin that dims my days, 

And wild regrets that veil the sun, 
Shall fade before those dazzling rays, 

And my long glory be begun ! 
Let the years conie to bless or bruise: 
Thy Heaven, O Lord, I shall not lose ! 



€j)ariotte fi^ht 5$ate^ 



(MADAME ROG^) 



A CHARACTER 



His face is truly of the Roman mould. 
He bears within the heart of Cato, too; 

Although his look may seem severe and 
cold. 
He never would be false to truth or you. 

A.nd deepest feeling hides about the 
mouth ; 



His soul-wind blows not always from the 

north, 
But sometimes also from the gentle south. 
And then, like flowers, the tender words 

steal forth. 

The light and fickle still have love to 
spare. 
If Death has taken from them even 
thrice ; 



400 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



But she wbo has this noble's love to wear 
May know it never will be given twice. 

Yes, whom he chooses may be always sure 
That no one else will ever take her place ; 

Of his whole heart eternally secure, 

Less need she tremble at Death's chilling 
face. 

And should she leave him, he will not wax 
weak 
With noisy woe, till Solace bare her 
breast ; 
Not in those soft and soothing arms would 
seek 
To dim the sense of loss in childish rest. 

Nay ! such as he, not months and years 
alone, 
Will keep the grave's grass green, its 
marble white; 
The cherished rose will blow about the stone 
Till bands that plighted troth shall re- 
unite. 



THE CLUE 

Oh, frame some little word for me 
None else shall ever hear or see, — 
Something my soul can call her own, 
When suddenly she feels alone ; 
Something that she can take away 
When God shall draw the veil of clay; 
Something that thou wilt know her by 
Among the billions of the sky; 
Something no other soul will fit 
Save hers for whom thou makest it. 



DELAY 

I DO affirm that thou hast saved the race 
As much as thou hast ever made it lose: 
Men of quick action may thy name abuse. 



But the world's life and theirs attest thy 

grace. 
An hour of thee doth sometimes turn the 

face 
Of men and kingdoms, bidding them refuse 
What, chosen last, it had been death to 

choose: 
Through thee alone, they missed the fatal 

place. 
How often dies the guileful thought or 

end 
When guileless eyes detain us on our way ! 
What sin and shame that hindrance may 

forefend, 
Which we so hate and storm against to- 
day ! _ 
What mighty evils over all impend, 
Averted graciously by kind Delay ! 



WOODBINES IN OCTOBER 

As dyed in blood the streaming vines ap- 
pear. 
While long and low the wind about them 
grieves : 
The heart of Autumn must have broken 
here. 
And poured its treasure out upon the 
leaves. 



THE LIVING BOOK 

This bears the seal of immortality. 

For every soul that reads it feels the 

search 
Of answering thought, and thousands there 

may be 
Saying at once, " How straight that looks 

at me ! " 
Nor child nor fool it leaveth in the lurch; 
But, like the eyes that mark great Guido's 

fame, 
It follows every one, as if by name. 



5iame^ iHptiec llantian 



MY MARYLAND 

The despot's heel is on thy shore, 

Maryland ! 
His torch is at thy temple door, 

Maryland ! 



Avenge the patriotic gore 

That flecked the streets of Baltimore, 

And be the battle-queen of yore, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 



JAMES RYDER RANDALL 



401 



Hark to an exiled son's appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My Mother State, to thee I kneel, 

Maryland ! 
For life and death, for woe and weal, 
Thy peerless chivalry reveal, 
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy beaming sword shall never rust, 

Maryland ! 
Remember Carroll's sacred trust. 
Remember Howard's warlike thrust. 
And all thy slnmberers with the just, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Come ! 't is the red dawn of the day, 

Maryland ! 
Come with thy panoplied array, 

Maryland ! 
With Ringgold's spirit for the fray. 
With Watson's blood at Monterey, 
With fearless Lowe and dashing May, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia should not call in vain, 

Maryland ! 
She meets her sisters on the plain, — 
" Sic semper ! " 't is the proud refrain 
That baiSes minions back amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise in majesty again, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come ! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, 

Maryland ! 
Come to thine own heroic throng 
Stalking with Liberty along, 
And chant thy dauntless slogan-song, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

I see the blush upon thy cheek, 

Maryland ! 
For thou wast ever bravely meek, 

Maryland! 
But lo ! there surges forth a shriek. 
From hill to hill, from creek to creek, 
Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 



Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou wilt not crook to his control, 

Maryland ! 
Better the fire upon thee roll. 
Better the shot, the blade, the bowl. 
Than crucifixion of the soul, 

Maryland, My Maryland ! 

I hear the distant thunder hum, 

Maryland ! 
The Old Line's bugle, fife, and drum, 

Maryland ! 
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb; 
Huzza ! she spurns the Northern scum ! 
She breathes ! She burns ! She '11 come ! 
She '11 come ! 

Maryland, My Maryland ! 



JOHN PELHAM 

Just as the spring came laughing through 
the strife. 

With all its gorgeous cheer, 
In the bright April of historic life 

Fell the great cannoneer. 

The wondrous lulling of a hero's breath 
His bleeding country weeps ; 

Hushed, in the alabaster arms of Death, 
Our young Marcellus sleeps. 

Nobler and grander than the child of 
Rome, 

Curbing his chariot steeds. 
The knightly scion of a Southern home 

Dazzled the land with deeds. 

Gentlest and bravest in the battle-brunt — 
The Champion of the Truth — 

He bore his banner to the very front 
Of our immortal youth. 

A clang of sabres mid Virginian snow, 

The fiery pang of shells, — 
And there 's a wail of immemorial woe 

In Alabama dells: 

The pennon drops, that led the sacred 
band 
Along the crimson field; 
The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless 
hand. 
Over the spotless shield. 



402 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous 
face, 
While, round the lips and eyes, 
Couched in their marble slumber, flashed 
the grace 
Of a divine surprise. 

O, mother of a blessed soul on high, 
Thy tears may soon be shed ! 

Think of thy boy, with princes of the 
sky, 
Among the Southern dead ! 

How must he smile on this dull world be- 
neath, 

Fevered with swift renown — 
He, with the martyr's amaranthine wreath, 

Twining the victor's crown ! 

WHY THE ROBIN'S BREAST WAS 
RED 

The Saviour, bowed beneath his cross, 
climbed up the dreary hill. 



And from the agonizing wreath ran many a 
crimson rill; 

The cruel Roman thrust him on with un- 
relenting hand. 

Till, staggering slowly mid the crowd. He 
fell upon the sand. 

A little bird that warbled near, that memo- 
rable day, 

Flitted around and strove to wrench one 
single thorn away; 

The cruel spike impaled his breast, — and 
thus, 't is sweetly said, 

The Robin has his silver vest incarnadined 
with red. 

Ah, Jesu ! Jesu ! Son of man ! My 
dolor and my sighs 

Reveal the lesson taught by this winged 
Ishmael of the skies. 

I, in the palace of delight or cavern of de- 
spair, 

Have plucked no thorns from thy dear 
brow, but planted thousands there ! 



9£bram 3io^c]p{) il!pan 



THE CONQUERED BANNER 

Furl that Banner, for 't is weary ; 
Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary: 

Furl it, fold it, — it is best ; 
For there 's not a man to wave it. 
And there 's not a sword to save it. 
And there's not one left to lave it 
In the blood which heroes gave it. 
And its foes now scorn and brave it: 

Furl it, hide it, — let it rest ! 

Take that Banner down ! 't is tattered ; 
Broken is its staff and shattered; 
And the valiant hosts are scattered. 

Over whom it floated high. 
Oh, 't is hard for us to fold it, 
Hard to think there 's none to hold it, 
Hard that those who once unrolled it 

Now must furl it with a sigh ! 

Furl that Banner — furl it sadly ! 
Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, 
^nd ten thousands wildly, madly. 
Swore it should forever wave; 



Swore that foenian's sword should never 
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever. 
Till that flag should float forever 

O'er their freedom or their grave ! 

Furl it ! for the hands that grasped it. 
And the hearts that fondly clasped it, 

Cold and dead are lying low; 
And that Banner — it is trailing. 
While around it sounds the wailing 

Of its people in their woe. 

For, though conquered, they adore it, — ■ 
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it. 
Weep for those who fell before it, 
Pardon those who trailed and tore it; 
And oh, wildly they deplore it. 
Now to furl and fold it so ! 

Furl that Banner ! True, 't is gory, 
Yet 't is wreathed around with glory. 
And 't will live in song and story 

Though its folds are in the dust ! 
For its fame on brightest pages. 
Penned by poets and by sages, 



ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN — FRANCIS BRET HARTE 403 



Shall go sounding down the ages — 


When God comes down each day to dwell 


Furl its folds though now we must. 


With hearts He loves the most. ^ 


Furl that Banner, softly, slowly ! 


I wish I were the chalice fair. 


Treat it gently — it is holy, 


That holds the Blood of Love, 


For it droops above the dead. 


When every gleam lights holy prayer 


Touch it not — unfold it never; 


Upon its way above. 


Let it droop there, furled forever, — 




For its people's hopes are fled ! 


I wish I were the little flower 




So near the Host's sweet face, 


, 


Or like the light that half an hour 


A CHILD'S WISH 


Burus on the shrine of grace. 


BEFORE AN ALTAR 


I wish I were the altar where, 




As on His mother's breast. 


I WISH I were the little key 


Christ nestles, like a child, fore'er 


That locks Love's Captive in, 


In Eucharistic rest. 


And lets Him out to go and free 




A sinful heart from sin. 


But, oh ! my God, I wish the most 




That my poor heart may be 


I wish I were the little bell 


A home all holy for each Host 


That tinkles for the Host, 


That comes in love to me. 



f ranci^ef 25rct ^axtt 



AT THE HACIENDA 

Know I not who thou mayst be 
Carved upon this olive-tree, — 

" Manuela of La Torre," — 
For around on broken walls 
Summer sun and spring rain falls, 
And in vain the low wind calls 

" Manuela of La Torre." 

Of that song no words remain 
But the musical refrain, — 

" Manuela of La Torre." 
Yet at night, when winds are still, 
Tinkles on the distant hill 
A guitar, and words that thrill 

Tell to me the old, old story, — 
Old when first thy charms were sung. 
Old when these old walls were young, 
" Manuela of La Torre." 

CHIQUITA 

Beautiful ! Sir, you may say so. Thar 
is n't her match in the county ; 

Is thar, old gal, — Chiquita, my darling, my 
beauty ? 



Feel of that neck, sir, — thar 's velvet ! 

Whoa ! steady, — ah, will you, you 

vixen ! 
Whoa ! I say. Jack, trot her out; let the 

gentleman look at her paces. 

Morgan ! — she ain't nothing else, and I 've 
got the papers to prove it. 

Sired by Chippewa Chief, and twelve hun- 
dred dollars won't buy her. 

Briggs of Tuolumne owned her. Did you 
know Briggs of Tuolumne ? 

Busted hisself in White Pine, and blew out 
his brains down in 'Frisco ? 

Hed n't no savey, hed Briggs. Thar, Jack ! 

that '11 do, — quit that f oolin' ! 
Nothin' to what she kin do, when she's got 

her work cut out before her. 
Hosses is bosses, you know, and likewise, 

too, jockeys is jockeys : 
And 't ain't ev'ry man as can ride as knows 

what a boss has got in him. 

Know the old ford on the Fork, that nearly 
got Flanigan's leaders ? 



4.04 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Nasty in daylight, you bet, and a mighty 

rough ford in low water ! 
Well, it ain't six weeks ago that me and the 

Jedge and his nevey 
Strnck for that ford in the night, in the 

rain, and the water all round us; 

Up to our flanks in the gulch, and Rattle- 
snake Creek jest a-bilin', 

Not a plank left in the dam, and nary a 
bridge on the river. 

I had the gray, and the Jedge had his roan, 
and his nevey, Chiquita; 

And after us trundled the rocks jest loosed 
from the top of the canon. 

Lickity, lickity, switch, we came to the ford, 

and Chiquita 
Buckled right down to her work, and, afore 

I could yell to her rider, 
Took water jest at the ford, and there was 

the Jedge and me standing, 
And twelve hundred dollars of hoss-flesh 

afloat, and a-driftin' to thunder ! 

Would ye b'lieve it ? That night, that hoss, 

that 'ar filly, Chiquita, 
Walked herself into her stall, and stood 

there, all quiet and dripjDing: 
Clean as a beaver or rat, with nary a buckle 

of harness, 
Jest as she swam the Fork, — that hoss, 

that ar' filly, Chiquita. 

That 's what I call a hoss ! and — What 

did you say ? — Oh, the nevey ? 
Drownded, I reckon, — leastways, he never 

kem back to deny it. 
Ye see the derned fool had no seat, ye 

could n't have made him a rider ; 
And then, ye know, boys will be boys, and 

bosses — well, bosses is bosses ! 



GRIZZLY 

Coward, — of heroic size, 
In whose lazy muscles lies 
Strength we fear and yet despise; 
Savage, — whose relentless tusks 
Are content with acorn husks; 
Robber, — whose exploits ne'er soared 
O'er the bee's or squirrel's hoard; 
Whiskered chin, and feeble nose. 
Claws of steel on baby toes, — 



Here, in solitude and shade, 
Shambling, shuffling plantigrade, 
Be thy courses undismayed ! 

Here, where Nature makes thy bed, 
Let thy rude, half-human tread 

Point to hidden Indian springs, 
Lost in ferns and fragrant grasses. 

Hovered o'er by timid wings, 
Where the wood-duck lightly passes, 
Where the wild bee holds her sweets, 
Epicurean retreats. 
Fit for thee, and better than 
Fearful spoils of dangerous man. 
In thy fat-jo wled deviltry 
Friar Tuck shall live in thee ; 
Thou mayest levy tithe and dole; 

Thou shalt spread the woodland cheer, 
From the pilgrim taking toll; 

Match thy cunning with his fear; 
Eat, and drink, and have thy fill; 
Yet remain an outlaw still ! 



CROTALUS 

No life in earth, or air, or sky; 
The sunbeams, broken silently. 
On the bared rocks around me lie, — 

Cold rocks with half-warmed lichens 

scarred. 
And scales of moss; and scarce a yard 
Away, one long strip, yellow-barred. 

Lost in a cleft ! T is but a stride 
To reach it, thrust its roots aside. 
And lift it on thy stick astride ! 

Yet stay ! That moment is thy grace ! 
For round thee, thrilling air and space, 
A chattering terror fills the place ! 

A sound as of dry bones that stir 
In the Dead Yalley ! By yon fir 
The locust stops its noonday whir 1 

The wild bird hears; smote with the sound, 

As if by bullet brought to ground. 

On broken wing, dips, wheeling round ! 

The hare, transfixed, with trembling lip, 
Halts, breathless, on pulsating hip. 
And palsied tread, and heels that slip. 



FRANCIS BRET HARTE 



405 



Enough, old friend ! — 't is thou. Forget 


I ain't no such. 


My heedless foot, nor longer fret 


Rum ? I don't mind, 


The peace with thy grim castanet ! 


Seein' it 's you. 


I know thee ! Yes ! Thou mayst forego 


Well, this yer Jim, — 


That lifted crest; the measured blow 


Did you know him ? 


Beyond which thy pride scorns to go, 


Jes' 'bout your size; 




Same kind of eyes ; — 


Or yet retract ! For me no spell 


Well, that is strange: 


Lights those slit orbs, where, some think, 


Why, it's two year 


dwell 


Since he came here, 


Machicolated fires of hell ! 


Sick, for a change. 


I only know thee humble, bold. 


Well, here 's to us: 


Haughty, with miseries untold, 


Eh? 


And the old Curse that left thee cold. 


The h you say ! 




Dead? 


And drove thee ever to the sun. 


That little cuss ? 


On blistering rocks; nor made thee shun 




Our cabin's hearth, when day was done, 


What makes you star', 




You over thar ? 


And the spent ashes warmed thee best; 


Can't a man drop 


We knew thee, — sileiit, joyless guest 


'S glass in yer shop 


Of our rude ingle. E'en thy quest 


But you must r'ar ? 




It would n't take 


Of the rare milk-bowl seemed to be 


D d much to break 


Naught but a brother's poverty 


You and your bar. 


And Spartan taste that kept thee free 






Dead! 


From lust and rapine. Thou ! whose fame 


Poor — little — Jim ! 


Searches the grass with tongue of flame. 


Why, thar was me. 


Making all creatures seem thy game ; 


Jones, and Bob Lee, 




Harry and Ben, — 


When the whole woods before thee run. 


No-account men: 


Asked but — when all was said and done — 


Then to take Aim/ 


To lie, untrodden, in the sun ! 






Well, thar — Good-by — 


"JIM" 


No more, sir — I — 


Eh? 


Say there ! P'r'aps 


What 's that you say ? 


Some on you chaps 


Why, dern it ! — sho — 


Might know Jim Wild ? 


No? Yes! By Joe! 


Well, — no offense : 


Sold ! 


Thar aint no sense 


Sold ! Why, you limb, 


In gittin' riled ! 


You ornery. 




Derned old 


Jim was my chum 


Long-legged Jim. 


Up on the Bar: 




That 's why I come 




Down from up yar, 


THE SOCIETY UPON THE 


Lookin' for Jim. 


STANISLAUS 


Thank ye, sir ! You 




Ain't of that crew, — 


I RESIDE at Table Mountain, and my name 


Blest if you are ! 


is Truthful James; 


Money ? Not much : 


I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful 


That ain't my kind; 


• games ; 



4o6 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD— DIVISION I 



And I '11 tell in simple language what I 

know about the row 
That broke up our Society upon the Stanis- 

low. 

But first I would remark, that it is not a 
proper plan 

For any scientific gent to whale his fellow- 
man, 

And, if a member don't agree with his pe- 
culiar whim, 

To lay for that same member for to " put a 
head " on him. 

Now nothing could be finer or more beauti- 
ful to see 

Than the first six months' proceedings of 
that same Society, 

Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of 
fossil bones 

That he found within a tunnel near the 
tenement of Jones. 

Then Brown he read a paper, and he recon- 
structed there. 

From those same bones, an animal that was 
extremely rare; 

And Jones then asked the Chair for a sus- 
pension of the rules, 

Till he could prove that those same bones 
was one of his lost mules. 

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and 

said he was at fault, — 
It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's 

family vault: 
He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet 

Mr. Brown, 
And on several occasions he had cleaned 

out the town. 

Now I hold it is not decent for a scientific 

gent 
To say another is an ass, — at least, to all 

intent ; 
Nor should the individual who happens to 

be meant 
Reply by heaving rocks at him, to any great 

extent. 

Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point 

of order — when 
A chunk of old red sandstone took him in 

the abdomen, 
And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and 

curled up on the floor. 



And the subsequent proceedings interested 
him no more. 

For, in less time than I write it, every mem- 
ber did engage 

In a warfare with the remnants of a palseo- 
zoic age; 

And the way they heaved those fossils in 
their anger was a sin, 

Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the 
head of Thompson in. 

And this is all I have to say of these im- 
proper games, 

For I live at Table Mountain, and my name 
is Truthful James; 

And I 've told in simple language what I 
know about the row 

That broke up our Society upon the Stan- 
islow. 



THE AGED STRANGER 

AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR 

" I WAS with Grant " — the stranger said; 

Said the farmer, " Say no more, 
But rest thee here at my cottage porch, 

For thy feet are weary and sore." 

" I was with Grant " — the stranger said; 

Said the farmer, " Nay, no more, — 
I prithee sit at my frugal board. 

And eat of my humble store. 

" How fares my boy, — my soldier boy, 
Of the old Ninth Army Corps ? 

I warrant he bore him gallantly 

In the smoke and the battle's roar ! " 

" I know him not," said the aged man, 

" And, as I remarked before, 
I was with Grant " — " Nay, nay, I know," 

Said the farmer, " say no more : 

" He fell in battle, — I see, alas ! 

Thou 'dst smooth these tidings o'er, — 
Nay, speak the truth, whatever it be, 

Though it rend my bosom's core. 

" How fell he, — with his face to the 
foe. 

Upholding the flag he bore ? 
Oh, say not that my boy disgraced 

The uniform that he wore ! " 



FRANCIS BRET HARTE - STEPHEN HENRY THAYER 407 



" I cannot tell," said the aged man, 
"And should have remarked before, 

That I was with Grant, — in Illinois, — 
Some three years before the war." 

Then the farmer spake him never a 
word, 
But beat with his fist full sore 
That aged man, who had worked for 
Grant 
Some three years before the war. 



MADRONO 

Captain of the Western wood, 
Thou that apest Robin Hood ! 
Green above thy scarlet hose, 
How thy velvet mantle shows ! 
Never tree like thee arrayed, 
O thou gallant of the glade ! 

When the fervid August sun 
Scorches all it looks upon. 
And the balsam of the pine 
Drips from stem to needle fine. 
Round thy compact shade arranged, 
Not a leaf of thee is changed ! 

When the yellow autumn sun 
Saddens all it looks upon. 
Spreads its sackcloth on the hills, 
Strews its ashes in the rills. 
Thou thy scarlet hose dost doff, 
And in limbs of purest buff 
Challengest the sombre glade 
For a sylvan masquerade. 



Where, oh, where, shall he begin 
Who would paint thee. Harlequin ? 
With thy waxen burnished leaf, 
With thy branches' red relief, 
With thy polytinted fruit, — 
In thy spring or autumn suit, — 
Where begin, and, oh, where end, 
Thou whose charms all art transcend ! 



WHAT THE BULLET SANG 

O JOY of creation 
To be! 

rapture to fly 

And be free ! 
Be the battle lost or won. 
Though its smoke shall hide the sun, 

1 shall find my love, — the one 

Born for me ! 

I shall know him where he stands, 

All alone. 
With the power in his hands 

Not o'erthrown; 
I shall know him by his face. 
By his godlike front and grace; 
I shall hold him for a space, 

All my own ! 

It is he — O my love ! 

So bold ! 
It is I — all thy love 

Foretold ! 
It is I. O love ! what bliss ! 
Dost thou answer to my kiss ? 
O sweetheart ! what is this 

Lieth there so cold ? 



J>tep|j0n ^cnrp €ppec 



EUROPA 

Great Sovereign of the earth and sea. 
Whose sceptre shall forever be 
The reign supreme of Liberty, 
Draw thou the veil that dims our sight, 
light thou our eyes, 
That we may see ! 

Beyond the waters, east and west, 
Six giant legions ominous rest, 



Equipped and armed from sole to crest; 
The burdened nations groan and reel and 
listen for 

The dread behest. 

The Ottoman by the JEgean tide 
Is bonded; there the navies ride 
And train their armaments to bide 
The menace from the eagle's north, or who 
will dare 

The kings allied. 



4o8 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



The cringing Sultan can but wait 
The will of other crowns; his fate 
Is graven in the hearts that hate 
And tremble at his wasting power — the 
curse of men — 
So weak, so great. 

His doom is written in the skies; 
His Orient Empire palsied lies, 
' And still and still he crucifies 
The last bare hope that yet might save, and 
mocks his knell, 
And still defies. 

I hear the Empires muttering now, — 
The northern Ceesar keeps his vow. 
And waits and wills both where and how 
His sheathless sword shall smite at last ; he 
waits and knits 
His iron brow. 

I see the Austrians mustering where 
The Adriatic's waters glare. 
Or by the Danube; and they swear 
Eternal vigilance against the Cossack hordes 
So sleepless there. 

The crafty Chancellor, outworn, 
Who guards the German state, in scorn 
Watches the French frontier, — his 
thorn ; 
Looks north to the Crimean gates, and east- 
ward to 

The Golden Horn. 

Europa waits the signal, swells 
Imperial armies, still compels, 
From Britain to the Dardanelles, 
Fresh millions to her warrior camps, and 
millions more. 

For ships and shells. 

Till on her mighty, martial field 
The greatest products she can yield 
Are armed men and sword and shield: 
Whole nations bent and strung for what ? 
O Lord, thy thought 
Is still concealed ! 

Great Sovereign of the earth and sea. 
Whose sceptre shall forever be 
The reign supreme of Liberty, 
Draw thou the veil that dims our sight, 
light thou our eyes, 
That we may see ! 
Charmian, lb Feb., i883 



POET OF EARTH 

Oh, be not ether-borne, poet of earth; ' 
Stretch not thy wings to such a cloudless 

height 
As ne'er to know the darkness of the night. 
As ne'er to feel the touch of grief or mirth 
That lives in human sympathj^, whose birth 
Is longed for in this world of love and 

blight; 
Thou, too, must drink of sorrow and delight, 
Must taste the joy o!f hope, and feel its 

dearth; 
God's service lies not out of reach, and heaven 
Is found alone through lowly ministry; 
Some souls there are whose dumb chords 

wait the breath 
Of other souls, divinely gifted, given 
To voice the deeper tones, and lead the way 
To immortality, through life and death ! 



THE WAITING CHORDS 

Heedless she strayed from note to note, 
A maid, scarce knowing that she sang; 

The dainty accents from her throat 
In undulations lightly rang. 

She sang in laughing rhythms sweet; 

A bird of spring was in her voice; 
Till, on through measures deft and fleet, 

She caught the ditty of her choice. 

A song of love, in words of fire. 

Now made her breast with passion stir; 

It breathed across her living lyre. 

And thrilled the waiting chords in her. 

Uplifted like a quivering dart. 

One moment poised the tones on high. 

To tell the language of her heart, 
And swell the psean ere it die. 

She smote the keys with will and force. 
Like storm-winds swept the sounds along; 

Her flying fingers in their course 
Vied with the tumult of her song. 

Her eyes flashed with the burning theme; 

A glow of triumph flushed her cheek; 
No need of words to tell the dream 

Of love her lips would never speak. 

When the wild cadence died In air, 
And all the chords to silence fell, 

I knew the spirit lurking there — 

The secret that had wrought the spell. 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



409 



HojS^itcr Slofin^on 



EVELYN 



If I could know 
That here about the place where last you 

played, — 
Within this room, and yonder in the shade 

Of branches low, — 
Your spirit lingered, I would never go. 
But evermore a hermit pace the round 
Of sunny paths across this garden ground, 

And o'er the fleckered lawn 
Whereon your baby chariot was drawn, 

And round these lonely walls, 

Where no sound ever falls 
So pretty as your prattle or your crow, — 

If I could only know ! 

If I could know 
That to some distant clime or planet rare 

Sweet sonls like thine repair. 
Where love's own fountains fail not as they 

flow, — 
I 'd be a traveller, and would ever go. 
Day after day, along the selfsame road, 
Leaving behind this desolate abode. 
My head upon my pillow only lay 
To dream myself still farther on the way, 

Until at last I rest. 
Clasping my little daughter to my breast, 
Though half eternity were wasted so, — 

If I could only know ! 

If I could know 
That you a child with childlike ways remain, 
I 'd never wish to be a man again, 

But only try to grow 
As childlike, using all the idle toys 
That you and I have played with, till their 

noise 
Brought back the echoes of your merry 

laugh. 
When paper windmill whirled upon its staff. 
Or painted ball went rolling on the floor, 

Or puss peeped out behind the door, 

Or watch, held half in fear. 
With its mysterious pulses thrilled your ear: 
All manly occupation I 'd forego, 

If I could only know ! 

If I could know 
That henceforth, in some pure eternal 
sphere, 



The little life that grew so swiftly here 

Would still expand and grow. 
How should I strive against my wasting 

years. 
With toil from sun to sun, and midnight 

tears. 
To build my soul up to the height of yours, 
And catch the light that lures, 
The inspiration that impels, 
The strength that dwells, 
Beyond the bounds of earthly cares and 
fears. 
Beyond this bitter woe, — 
If I could only know ! 

Alas ! what do I know ? 
I know your world scarce compassed yonder 
stone — 

As little seems my own ! 
I know you never knew unhappiness — 

Would I could mourn the less ! 
I know you never saw death's darker side — 

The shore where we abide ! 
I know you never felt the nameless 
dread — 

Ah, but if mine were fled ! 
I know you never heard a lover's vow — 

And I 'm your lover now ! 
I know no answer to my wail can come — 

Let me be dumb ! 



A SOLDIER POET 

Where swell the songs thou shouldst have 
sung 

By peaceful rivers yet to flow ? 
Where bloom the smiles thy ready tongue 

Would call to lips that loved thee so ? 
On what far shore of being tossed, 

Dost thou resume the genial stave, 
And strike again the lyre we lost 

By Rappahannock's troubled wave ? 

If that new world hath hill and stream, 

And breezy bank, and quiet dell. 
If forests murmur, waters gleam. 

And wayside flowers their story tell, 
Thy hand ere this has plucked the reed 

That wavered by the wooded shore; 
Its prisoned soul thy fingers freed, 

To float melodious evermore. 



4IO 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



So seems it to my musing mood, 
So runs it in my surer thought, 

That much of beauty, more of good, • 
For thee the rounded years have wrought ; 



That life will live, however blown 
Like vapor on the summer air; 

That power perpetuates its own; 
That silence here is music there. 



^Cmelia il^al^ticn Carpenter 



THE RIDE TO CHEROKEE 

It 's only we, Grimalkin, both fond and fancy 

free, 
So do your best, my beauty, for a home for 

you and me; 
For you the oats and leisure, for me the 

pipe and book, 
With sometimes, just at sunset, the long 

gray eastward look. 
For once there was another: ah, Kathrine ! 

who shall say 
What wilful fancy seized you that sunny 

summer day; 
You turned and nodded, smiling as you 

went gayly by. 
And the man who strolled beside you had a 

braver front than I; 
It meant a day's undoing, a night's black 

watch for me, 
And this mad ride. Grimalkin, to-day for 

Cherokee. 

The great crowd forges forward, like fire 

in fury blown, 
Each urging to the utmost, and God help 

him that 's down. 
Shoulder to shoulder rising like shapes in 

horror cast, 
And my good mare aflashing a star along 

the blast; 
So — so — my brave Grimalkin, it's home 

for you and me 
If we ride the distance safely to the line 

in Cherokee: 
We '11 pass our lives together, — you '11 have 

a stall with me. 
And a blanket — if we win it — in the home 

in Cherokee. 

There 's one that 's riding with us, with 
many a good steed passed, 

Look well, little Grimalkin, or you're left, 
too, at the last; 

He 's singing as he 's riding with his brave 
and gallant air, 



With the fierce light falling hotly on his 

face and yellow hair. 
A rush — a shout; he's falling; God help 

the man that 's down 
As the wild steeds thunder onward, on the 

hard earth baked and brown. 
On, on; and look, Grimalkin ! we're safe, 

't is victory ! 
We '11 stake the claim and hold the home, 

here in the Cherokee. 

And he that fell ! jsl breath space I saw his 
glazing eyes 

As he lay staring upward into the dust-filled 
skies : 

Eyes one star-flash of memory told me I 'd 
met before. 

Eyes that a woman's loving would brighten 
nevermore. 

And fancy flung me backward, from that 
madding rush and whirl, 

To an old Long Island garden and a violet- 
laden girl; 

Ah well, he stole my treasure, my sweet- 
heart's heart, from me, — 

God rest him ! I 'm the victor, to-day in 
Cherokee I 

RECOLLECTION 

A SILVER birch-tree like a sacred maid 
Set with a guard of stalwart hemlocks 

round. 
Whose low-toned airs stole by with sighing 

sound. 
Stirred, shivering slightly, as if half afraid 
Where the black shadow crept along the 

ground. 
Breathless she stood, — as one whose work 

is stayed. 
But threads her shuttle while her thought 

has strayed 
To times when wild fauns hautited all the 

rills. 
And piped among the deep noon-checkered 

hills 



MRS. CARPENTER — JOHN LANCASTER SPALDING 411 



Till all the land with song was over- 
laid. 

O Pan, dear Pan ! come forth from out the 
dark 

Of those dream days; outsing our thrush 
and lark 

Till laughter-loving youths from window- 
sills 

Shall whisper, " Hark ! who sang that love- 
song ? Hark ! " 



OLD FLEMISH LACE 

A LONG, rich breadth of Holland lace, 

A window by a Flemish sea; 
Huge men go by with mighty pace, — 
Great Anne was Queen these days, may 

be. 
And strange ships prowled for spoil the 
sea — 

For you — old lace ! 



Stitch after stitch enwrought with grace. 
The mist falls cold on Zuyder-Zee; 

The silver tankards hang in place 
Along the wall; across her knee 

Dame Snuyder spreads her square of lace, 
A veil — for me ? 

The Holland dames put by their lace, 

The bells of Bruges ring out in glea ; 
The mill-wheels move in sluggish race ; — 
Farewell, sweet bells ! Then down the 
sea 
The slow ship brings the bridal grace — 
The veil — for me ! 

Manhattan shores — a New World place. 

The Pinxter-blows their sweetest be: 
And now — come close, O love-bright 
face — 
Bend low — . . . 

Nay, not old Trinity, 
To Olde Sainte Marke's i' the Bowerie, 
Dear Hal, — with thee ! 



Sjoljn Hanca^tci: ^paJtiing 



BELIEVE AND TAKE HEART 

What can console for a dead world ? 

We tread on dust which once was life; 

To nothingness all things are hurled: 

What meaning in a hopeless strife ? 
Time's awful storm 
Breaks but the form. 

Whatever comes, whatever goes. 
Still throbs the heart whereby we live; 
The primal joys still lighten woes, 
And time which steals doth also give. 

Fear not, .be brave : 

God can thee save. 

The essential truth of life remains. 
Its goodness and its beauty too, 
Pure love's unutterable gains, 
Aad hope which thrills us through and 
through: 

God has not fled. 

Souls are not dead. 

Not in most ancient Palestine, 
Nor in the lightsome air of Greece, 



Were human struggles more divine, 
More blessed with guerdon of increase: 
Take thou thy stand 
In the workers' band. 

Hast then no faith ? Thine is the fault : 
What prophets, heroes, sages, saints. 
Have loved, on thee still makes assault, 
Thee with immortal things acquaints. 

On life then seize : 

Doubt is disease. 



THE STARRY HOST 

The countless stars, which to our human 

eye 
Are fixed and steadfast, each in proper 

place. 
Forever bound to changeless points in 

space. 
Rush with our sun and planets through the 

sky, 

And like a flock of birds still onward 
Returning never whence began their race. 



412 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



They speed their ceaseless way with gleam- 
ing face 

As though God bade them win Infinity. 

Ah whither, whither is their forward flight 

Through endless time and limitless ex- 
panse ? 

What power with unimaginable might 

First hurled them forth to spin in tireless 
dance ? 

What beauty lures them on through primal 
night, 

So that for them to be is to advance ? 



SILENCE 

Inaudible move day and night, 
And noiseless grows the flower; 

Silent are pulsing wings of light. 
And voiceless fleets the hour. 

The moon utters no word when she 
Walks through the heavens bare; 

The stars forever silent flee, 

And songless gleam through air. 

The deepest love is voiceless too; 

Heart sorrow makes no moan: 
How still the zephyrs when they woo ! 

How calm the rose full blown ! 

The bird winging the evening sky 
Flies onward without song; 

The crowding years as they pass by 
Flow on in mutest throng. 

The fishes glide through liquid deep 

And never speak a word; 
The angels round about us sweep, 

And yet no voice is heard. 

The highest thoughts no utterance find, 

The holiest hope is dumb. 
In silence grows the immortal mind, 

And speechless deep joys come. 

Rapt adoration has no tongue, 
No words has holiest prayer; 

The loftiest mountain peaks among 
Is stillness everywhere. 

With sweetest music silence blends, 

And silent praise is best; 
In silence life begins and ends; 

God cannot be expressed. 



FOREPLEDGED 

O WOMAN, let thy heart not cleave 

To any poet's soul; 
For he the muse will never leave, 

But follow to life's goal. 

Then trust him not, he is not thine, 

Whate'er he seems to be ; 
Strong unseen tendrils round him twine, 

And keep him still from thee. 

His words with passion are athrill, 
And bear contagious fire; ; 

He knows the charmer's perfect skill 
To wake the heart's desire. 

But love him not, his love is woe; 

The genius at his side 
Would prove for thee a fatal foe 

Wert thou his wedded bride. 



FROM "GOD AND THE SOUL" 

NATURE AND THE CHILD 

For many bessings I to God upraise 
A thankful heart; the life He gives is fair 
And sweet and good, since He is every- 
where, 
Still with me even in the darkest ways. 
But most I thank Him for my earliest days. 
Passed in the fields and in the open air, 
With flocks and birds and flowers, free 

from all care, 
And glad as brook that through a meadow 

strays. 
balmy air, O orchards white with bloom, 
O waving fields of ever-varying green, 
O deep, mysterious woods, whose leafy 

gloom 
Invites to pensive dreams of worlds unseen. 
To thoughts as solemn as the silent tomb. 
No power from you my heart can ever wean ! 

ET MORI LUCRUM 

The star must cease to burn with its own 

light , 
Before it can become the dwelling-place 
Of hearts that love, — beings of godlike race, 
Through its own death attaining to the 

height 
Of excellence, and sinking into night, 



BISHOP SPALDING — HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER 413 



That it may glow with a more perfect grace, 
Aud bear a nobler life through boundless 

space, 
Till time shall bring eternity in sight. 
So man, if he would truly live, must die, 
Descending through the, grave that he may 

rise 
To higher worlds and dwell in purer sky; 
Making of seeming life the sacrifice 
To share the perfect life with God on high, 
Where love divine is the infinite prize. 

THE VOID BETWEEN 

When from the gloom of earth we see the 

sky, 

The happy stars seem each to other near, 
And their low-whispered words we almost 

hear, 
As in sweet company they smile or sigh. 
Alas ! infinite worlds between them lie, 
And solitary each within its sphere 
Rolls lonely ever onward without cheer. 
Is born, and lives and dies with no one 

near. 
And so men's souls seem close together 

bound, 



But worlds immeasurable lie between. 
And each is centre in a void profound. 
Wherein he lonely lives sad or serene. 
And, planet-like, moves higher centre round, 
Whence light he draws as from the sun 
night's Queen. 

AT THE NINTH HOUR 

Eli, Eli, lama sabacthani ? 

O sadder than the ocean's wailing moan. 

Sadder than homes whence life and joy 

have flown, 
Than graves where those we love in dark- 
ness lie; 
More full of anguish than all agony 
Of broken hearts, forsaken of their own 
And left in hopeless misery alone. 
Is this, O sweet and loving Christ, Thy 

cry ! 
For this, this only is infinite pain: 
To feel that God Himself has turned away. 
If He abide, all loss may still be gain. 
And darkest night be beautiful as day. 
But lacking Him the universe is vain, 
And man's immortal soul is turned to 
clay. 



i^entp 23crnarti Carpenter 



THE REED 

" ET ARUNDINEM IN DEXTERA EJUS " 

Beneath the Memnonian shadows of Mem- 
phis, it rose from the slime, 

A reed of the river, self-hid, as though 
shunning the curse of its crime. 

And it shook as it measured in whispers 
the lapses of tide and of time. 

It shuddered, it stooped, and was dumb, 
when the kings of the earth passed 
along. 

For what could this reed of the river in the 
race of th6 swift and the strong, — 

Where the wolf met the bear and the pan- 
ther, blood-bathed, at the banquets of 
wrong ? 

These loved the bright brass, the hard steel, 
and the gods that kill and condemn; 



Yea, theirs was the robe silver-tissued, and 
theirs was the sun-colored gem; 

If they touched thee, O reed, 't was to wing 
with swift death thy sharp arrowy 
stem. 

Then the strong took the corn and the wine, 
and the poor, who had scattered 
the seed, 

Went forth to the wilderness weeping, and 
sought out a sign in their need. 

And the gods laughed in rapturous thun- 
^ der, and showed them the wind- 
shaken reed. 

O dower of the poor and the helpless ! O 

key to Thought's palace unpriced ! 
When the strong mocked with cruel crimson 

and spat in the face of their Christ, 
When the thorns were his crown — in his 

faint palm this reed for a sceptre 

sufficed : 



414 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



This reed in whose fire-pith Prometheus 

brought life, and the arts began, 
When Man, the god of time's twilight, grew 

godlike by dying for Man, 
Ere Redemption fell bound and bleeding, 

priest-carved to the priests' poor 

plan. 

Come hither, ye kings of the earth, and ye 
priests without pity, draw near: 

Ye girded your loins for a curse, and ye 
builded dark temples to Fear; 

Ye gathered from rune-scroll and symbol 
great syllables deathful and drear. 

Then ye summoned mankind to your Idol, 

the many bowed down to the few. 
As ye told in loud anthems how all things 

were framed for the saints and for 

you, — 
" Lord, not on these sun-blistered rocks, 

but on Gideon's fleece falls thy 

dew." 

Man was taken from prison to judgment; 
a bulrush he bent at your nod; 

Ye stripped him of rights, his last garment, 
and bared his broad back for the rod, 

And ye lisped, as he writhed down in an- 
guish, " This woe is the sweet will 
of God." 

But lo ! whilst ye braided the thorn-crown 
for Man and the children of men, 



Whilst ye reft him of worship and wealth, 
and he stood mute and dazed in your 
den, 

A reed-stalk remained for a sceptre; ye left 
in his hand the pen. 

Sweet wooer, strong winner of kingship, 
above crown, crosier and sword, 

By thee shall the mighty be broken, and the 
spoil which their might hath stored 

Shall be stamped small as dust, and be wafted 
away by the breath of the Lord. 

His decree is gone forth, it is planted, and 

these are the words which he 

spake, — 
No smouldering flax of first fancy, no full 

flame of thought, will he slake. 
No bruised reed of the writer shall the 

strength of eternities break. 

Behold your sign and your sceptre. Arise, 

imperial reed, 
Go forth to discrown king and captain and 

disinherit the creed; 
O strike through the iron war-tower and 

cast out the murderer's seed; 

Go forth — like the swell of the spring-tide, 
sweep on in measureless sway. 

Till raised over each throned falsehood, in 
bright omnipresence like day. 

Thou shalt bruise them with rod of iron, 
and break them like vessels of clay. 



^oh(xt Jidlep Wcth^ 



MEDUSA 



One calm and cloudless winter night, 

Under a moonless sky. 
Whence I had seen the gracious light 

Of sunset fade and die, 

I stood alone a little space, 
Where tree nor building bars 

Its outlook, in a desert place, 
The best to see the stars. 

No sound was in the frosty air, 

No light below the skies; 
I looked above, and unaware 

Looked in Medusa's eyes : — 



The eyes that neither laugh nor weep, 

That neither hope nor fear. 
That neither watch nor dream nor sleep, 

Nor sympathize nor sneer; 

The eyes that neither spurn nor choose, 

Nor question nor reply, 
That neither pardon nor accuse, 

That yield not nor defy; 

The eyes that hide not nor reveal, 

That trust not nor betray. 
That acquiesce not nor appeal, — 

The eyes that never pray. 



ROBERT KELLEY WEEKS — JOHN WHITE CHADWICK 415 



O love that will not be forgot ! 

O love that leaves alone ! 
O love that blinds and blesses not ! 

O love that turns to stone ! 

A SONG FOR LEXINGTON 

The spring came earlier on 
Than usual that year; 
The shadiest snow was gone, 
The slowest brook was clear, 
And warming in the sun 
Shy flowers began to peer. 

'T was more like middle May, 
The earth so seemed to thrive, 
That Nineteenth April day 
Of Seventeen Seventy-Five; 
Winter was well away, 
New England was alive ! 

Alive and sternly glad ! 

Her doubts were with the snow; 

Her courage, long forbade. 

Ran full to overflow; 

And every hope she had 

Began to bud and grow. 

She rose betimes that morn, 
For there was work to do; 
A planting, not of corn, 
Of what she hardly knew, — 
Blessings for men unborn; 
And well she did it too ! 

With open hand she stood, 
And sowed for all the years, 



And watered it with blood. 
And watered it with tears, 
The seed of quickening food 
For both the hemispheres. 

This was the planting done 

That April morn of fame ; 

Honor to every one 

To that seed-field that came ! 

Honor to Lexington, 

Our first immortal name ! 



MAN AND NATURE 

O STEADFAST trees that know 
Rain, hail, and sleet, and snow. 
And all the winds that blow; 

But when spring comes, can then 

So freshly bud again 
Forgetful of the wrong ! 

Waters that deep below 

The stubborn ice can go 

With quiet underflow, 
Contented to be dumb 
Till spring herself shall come 

To listen to your song ! 

Stars that the clouds pass o'er 

And stain not, but make more 

Alluring than before: — 
How good it is for us 
That your lives are not thus 

Prevented, but made strong ! 



g[o6n mWt Cfjatituicfe 



THE MAKING OF MAN 

As the insect from the rock 

Takes the color of its wing; 
As the boulder from the shock 

Of the ocean's rhythmic swing 
Makes itself a perfect form. 

Learns a calmer front to raise; 
As the shell, enamelled warm 

With the prism's mystic rays, 
Praises wind and wave that make 

All its chambers fair and strong; 



As the mighty poets take 

Grief and pain to build their song: 
Even so for every soul, 

Whatsoe'er its lot may be, ^ 
Building, as the heavens roll, 

Something large and strong and free, 
Things that hurt and things that mar 

Shape the man for perfect praise; 
Shock and strain and ruin are 

Friendlier than the smiling days. 



4.i6 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



THE GOLDEN-ROBIN'S NEST 

The golden-robin came to build his nest 
High in the elm-tree's ever-nodding crest; 
All the long day, upon his task intent, 
Backward and forward busily he went, 

Gathering from far and near the tiny shreds 
That birdies weave for little birdies' beds ; 
Xow bits of grass, now bits of vagrant 

string. 
And now some queerer, dearer sort of thing. 

For on the lawn, where he was wont to 

come 
In search of stuff to build his pretty 

home, 
We dropped one day a lock of golden 

hair 
Which our wee darling easily could spare; 

And close beside it tenderly we placed 

A lock that had the stooping shoulders 

graced 
Of her old grandsire ; it was white as 

snow. 
Or cherry-trees when they are all ablow. 

Then throve the golden-robin's work apace ; 
Hundreds of times he sought the lucky place 
Where sure, he thought, in his bird-fashion 

dim, 
Wondrous provision had been made for 

him. 

Both locks, the white and golden, disap- 
peared ; 

The nest was finished, and the brood was 
reared ; 

And then there came a pleasant summer's 
day 

When the last golden-robin flew away. 

Ere long, in triumph, from its leafy height. 
We bore the nest so wonderfully dight. 
And saw how jDrettily the white and gold 
Made warp and woof of many a gleaming 
fold. 

But when again the golden-robins came, 
Cleaving the orchards with their breasts 

aflame, 
Grandsire's white locks and baby's golden 

head 
Were lying low, both in one grassy bed. 



And so more dear than ever is the nest 
Ta'eu from the elm-tree's ever nodding 

crest. 
Little the golden-robin thought how rare 
A thing he wrought of white and golden 

hair ! 



RECOGNITION 

When souls that have put off their mortal 

gear 
Stand in the pure, sweet light of heaven's . 

day, _ 
And wondering deeply what to do or say, 
And trembling more with rapture than with 

fear, 
Desire some token of their friends most 

dear, 
Who there some time have made their 

happy stay, 
And much have longed for them to come 

that way. 
What shall it be, this sign of hope and 

cheer ? 
Shall it be tone of voice or glance of eye ? 
Shall it be touch of hand or gleam of hair 
Blown back from spirit-brows by heaven's 

air, — 
Things which of old we knew our dearest 

by? 
Oh, naught of this ; but, if our love is 

true. 
Some secret sense shall cry, 'T is you and 

— you! 



STARLIGHT 

"Look up," she said; and all the heavens 

blazed 
With countless myriads of quiet stars, 
Whereon a moment silently he gazed. 
And drank that peace no trouble ever mars. 
Then looking down into her face upturned. 
Two other stars that did outshine the rest 
Upward to him with such soft splendor 

yearned 
That all her secret was at once confessed. 
Then he with kisses did put out their light. 
And said, "O strange, but more, dear love, 

to me 
Are thy pure eyes than all the stars of 

night 
That shine in beavea everlastingly 1 



JOHN WHITE CHADWICK — GEORGE ALFRED TOWNSEND 417 



Night still is night, with every star aglow; 
But light were night didst thou not love 
me so." 

THE RISE OF MAN 

Thou for whose birth the whole creation 

yearned 
Through countless ages of the morning 

world, 
Who, first in fiery vapors dimly hurled, 
Next to the senseless crystal slowly turned, 
Then to the plant which grew to something 

more, — 
Humblest of creatures that draw breath of 

life, — 
Wherefrom through infinites of patient pain 
Came conscious man to reason and adore: 
Shall we be shamed because such thing? 

have been, 
Or bate one jot of our ancestral pride ? 
Nay, in thyself art thou not deified 
That from such depths thou couldst such 

summits win ? 
While the long way behind is prophecy 
Of those perfections which are yet to be. 

HIS MOTHER'S JOY 

Little, I ween, did Mary guess, 

As on her arm her baby lay. 
What tides of joy would swell and beat, 

Through ages long, on Christmas day. 

And what if she had known it all, — 
The awful splendor of liis fame ? 

The inmost heart of all her joy 
Would still, methinks, have been the 
same: 



The joy that every mother knows 

Who feels her babe against her breast: 

The voyage long is overpast. 

And now is calm and peace and rest. 

" Art thou the Christ ? " The wonder came 
As easy as her infant's breath: 

But answer none. Enough for her. 
That love had triumphed over death. 

A WEDDING-SONG 

I SAID : " My heart, now let us sing a song 
For a fair lady on her wedding-day; 
Some solemn hymn or pretty roundelay. 

That shall be with her as she goes along 
To meet her joy, and for her happy feet 
Shall make a pleasant music, low and 
sweet." 

Then said my heart: " It is right bold of 
thee 

To think that any song that we could 
sing 

Would for this lady be an offering 
Meet for such gladness as hers needs must 
be. 

What time she goes to don her bridal 
ring, 

And her own heart makes sweetest carol- 
ling." 

And so it is that with my lute unstrung, 
Lady, I come to greet thy wedding-day; 
But once, methinks, I heard a poet say. 

The sweetest songs remain for aye unsung. 
So mine, unsung, at thy dear feet I lay. 
And with a " Peace be with you ! " gc 
my way. 



(iBeorgc %]kch CotDiij^niti 



A.RMY CORRESPONDENT'S LAST 
RIDE 

FIVE FORKS, APRIL 1ST, 1865. 

IIo ! pony. Down the lonely road 
Strike now your cheeriest pace ! 

The woods on fire do not burn higher 
Than burns my anxious face; 

Far have you sped, but all this night 
Must feel my nervous spur; 



If we be late, the world must wait 

The tidings we aver: — 
To home and hamlet, town and hearth, 

To thrill child, mother, man, 
I carry to the waiting North 

Great news from Sheridan ! 

The birds are dead among the pines, 

Slain by the battle fright, 
Prone in the road the steed reclines 

That never reached the fight; 



4i8 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Yet on we go, — the wreck below 

Of many a tumbled wain, — 
By ghastly pools where stranded mules 

Die, drinking of the rain; 
With but my list of killed and missed 

I spur my stumbling nag. 
To tell of death at many a tryst, 

But victory to the flag ! 

" Halt ! who comes there ? The counter- 



sign 



" Advance ! The fight, — 
?»_ "We won the 



" A friend." 
How goes it, say 
day ! " — 

« Huzza ! Pass on ! " — " Good-night ! "— 
And parts the darkness on before, 

And down the mire we tramp, 
And the black sky is painted o'er 

With many a pulsing camp; 
O'er stumps and ruts, by ruined huts. 

Where ghosts look through the gioam, — 
Behind my tread I hear the dead 

Follow the news toward home ! 

The hunted souls I see behind, 

In swamp and in ravine, 
Whose cry for mercy thrills the wind 

Till cracks the sure carbine; 
The moving lights, which scare the dark, 

And show the trampled place 
Where, in his blood, some mother's bud 

Turns up his young, dead face; 
The captives spent, whose standards rent 

The conqueror parades. 
As at the Five Forks roads arrive 

The General's dashing aides. 

wondrous Youth! through this grand 

ruth 
Runs my boy's life its thread; 
The General's fame, the battle's name. 
The rolls of maimed and dead 

1 bear, with my thrilled soul astir, 
And lonely thoughts and fears, 

And am but History's courier 

To bind the conquering years; 
A battle-ray, through ages gray 

To light to deeds sublime. 
And flash the lustre of this day 

Down all the aisles of Time ! 

Ho ! pony, — 't is the signal gun 

The night-assault decreed; 
On Petersburg the thunderbolts 

Crash from the lines of Meade; 



Fade the pale, frightened stars o'erhead, 

And shrieks the bursting air; 
The forest foliage, tinted red, 

Grows ghastlier in the glare ; 
Though in her towers, reached her last hours. 

Rocks proud Rebellion's crest — 
The world may sag, if but my nag 

Get in before the rest ! 

With bloody flank, and fetlocks dank, 

And goad, and lash, and shout — 
Great God ! as every hoof-beat falls 

A hundred lives beat out ! 
As weary as this broken steed 

Reels down the corduroys. 
So, weary, fight for morning light 

Our hot and grimy boys; 
Through ditches wet, o'er parapet 

And guns barbette, they catch 
The last, lost breach ; and I, — I reach 

The mail with my despatch ! 

Sure it shall speed, the land to read, 

As sped the happiest shell ! 
The shot I send strike the world's end; 

This tells my pony's knell; 
His long race run, the long war done, 

My occupation gone, — 
Above his bier, prone on the pier, 

The vultures fleck the dawn. 
Still, rest his bones where soldiers dwell. 

Till the Long Roll they catch. 
He fell the day that Richmond fell. 

And took the first despatch ! 



IN RAMA 

A LITTLE face there was. 

When all her pains were done. 
Beside that face I loved: 

They said it was a son. 
A son to me — how strange ! — 

Who never was a man. 
But lived from change to change 

A boy, as I began. 

More boyish still the hope 

That leaped within me then, 
That I, matured in him, 

Should found a house of men; 
And all my wasted sheaves. 

Bound up in his ripe shock, 
Give seed to sterner times 

And name to sterner stock. 



GEORGE ALFRED TO WNSEND — EDWARD ROWLAND SILL 419 



He grew to that ideal, 


One day an angel stepped 


And blossomed iu my sight; 


Out of the idle sphere ; 


Strange questions filled his day, 


The man had entered in. 


Sweet visions in the night, 


The boy is weeping here. 


Till he could walk with me, 




Companion, hand in hand; 


My house is founded there 


But nothing seemed to be 


In heaven that he has won. 


Like him, in Wonder-land. 


Shall I be outlawed, then, 




Lord who hast my son ? 


For he was leading me 


This grief that makes me old. 


Beyond the bounds of mind, 


These tears that make me pure, 


Far down Eternity, 


They tell me time is time. 


And I so far behind. 


And only heaven mature. 



€titoarb itlotolanti J>ill 



THE FOOL'S PRAYER 

The royal feast was done; the King 
Sought some new sport to banish care, 

And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool, 

Kneel now, and make for us a prayer ! " 

The jester doffed his cap and bells. 
And stood the mocking court before; 

They could not see the bitter smile 
Behind the painted grin he wore. 

He bowed his head, and bent his knee 
Upon the monarch's silken stool; 

His pleading voice arose: " O Lord, 
Be merciful to me, a fool ! 

« 

" No pity, Lord, could change the heart 
From red with wrong to white as wool: 

The rod must heal the sin; but. Lord, 
Be merciful to me, a fool ! 

" 'T is not by guilt the onward sweep 
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay; 

'T is by our follies that so long 

We hold the earth from heaven away. 

" These clumsy feet, still in the mire, 
Go crushing blossoms without end; 

These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust 
Among the heart-strings of a friend. 

" The ill-timed truth we might have kept — 
Who knows how sharp it pierced and 
stuns: ! 



The word we had not sense to say — 
Who knows how grandly it had 
rung ! 

" Our faults no tenderness should ask. 
The chastening stripes must cleanse 
them all; 

But for our blunders — oh, in shame 
Before the eyes of heaven we fall. 

"Earth bears no balsam for mistakes; 

Men crown the knave, and scourge 
the tool 
That did his will; but Thou, O Lord, 

Be merciful to me, a fool ! " 

The room was hushed ; in silence rose 
The King, and sought his gardens 
cool. 

And walked apart, and murmured low, 
" Be merciful to me, a fool ! " 



BEFORE SUNRISE IN WINTER 

A PURPLE cloud hangs half-way down; 

Sky, yellow gold below; 
The naked trees, beyond the town. 

Like masts against it show, — 

Bare masts and spars of our earth-ship. 
With shining snow- sails furled; 

And through the sea of space we slip, 
That flows all round the world. 



420 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



THE LOVER'S SONG 


TEMPTED 


Lend me thy fillet, Love ! 


Yes, I know what you say : 


I would no longer see:. 


Since it cannot be soul to soul, 


Cover mine eyelids close awhile, 


Be it flesh to flesh, as it may; 


And make me blind like thee. 


But is Earth the whole ? 


Then might I pass her sunny face. 


Shall a man betray the Past 


And know not it was fair; 


For all Earth gives ? 


Then might I hear her voice, nor guess 


" But the Past is dead ? " At last. 


Her starry eyes were there. 


It is all that lives. 


Ah ! Banished so from stars and sun — 


Which were the nobler goal, — 


Why need it be my fate ? 


To snatch at the moment's blisS; 


.If only she might dream me good 


Or to swear I will keep my soul 


And wise, and be my mate ! 


Clean for her kiss ? 


Lend her thy fillet, Love ! 




Let her no longer see: 


FORCE 


If there is hope for me at all, 




She must be blind like thee. 


The stars know a secret 




They do not tell; 




And morn brings a message 


THE COUP DE GRACE 


Hidden well. 


If I were very sure 


There 's a blush on the apple. 


That all was over betwixt you and me, — 


A tint on the wing, 


That, while this endless absence I endure 


And the bright wind whistles, 


With but one mood, one dream, one misery 


And the pulses sting. 


Of waiting, you were happier to be free, — 






Perish dark memories ! 


Then I might find again 


There 's light ahead ; 


In cloud and stream and all the winds that 


This world 's for the living. 


blow, 


Not for the dead. 


Yea, even in the faces of my fellow- 




men, 


In the shining city, 


The old companionship ; and I might know 


On the loud pave. 


Once more the pulse of action, ere I go. 


The life-tide is running 




Like a leaping wave. 


But now I cannot rest. 




While this one pleading, querulous tone 


How the stream quickens, 


without 


As noon draws near ! 


Breaks in and mars the music in my 


No room for loiterers. 


breast. 


No time for fear. 


I open the closed door — lo ! all about, 




What seem your lingering footprints; then 


Out on the farm lands 


I doubt. 


Earth smiles as well; 




Gold-crusted grain-fields. 


Waken me from this sleep ! 


With sweet, warm smell j 


Strike fearless, let the naked truth-edge 




gleam ! 


Whir of the reaper, 


For while the beautiful old past I keep. 


Like a giant bee; 


I am a phantom, and all mortals seem 


Like a Titan cricket. 


But phantoms, and my life fades as a dream. 


Thrilling with glee. 



EDWARD ROWLAND SILL — WILLIAM GORDON McCABE 421 



On mart and meadow, 




Didst let man lose, lest all his wayward 


Pavement or plain; 




youth 


On azure mountain, 




He waste in song and dance ; 


Or azure main, — 




That he might gain, in searching, mightier 
powers 


Heaven bends in blessing; 




For manlier use in those foreshadowed 


Lost is but won; 




hours. 


Goes the good rain-cloud, 






Comes the good sun: 




If, blindly groping, he shall oft mistake, 
And follow twinkling motes 


Only babes whimper. 




Thinking them stars, and the one voice for- 


And sick men wail, 




sake 


And faint hearts and feeble hearts, 


Of Wisdom for the notes 


And weaklings fail. 




Which mocking Beauty utters here and 
there, 


Down the great currents 




Thou surely vsdlt forgive him, and forbear ! 


Let the boat swing; 






There was never winter 




Oh love us, for we love thee, Maker — God ! 


But brought the spring. 




And would creep near thy hand. 
And call thee " Father, Father," from the 
sod 
Where by our graves we stand, 


A PRAYER 








And pray to touch, fearless of scorn or 


God, our Father, if we 


had but 


blame. 


truth ! 




Thy garment's hem, which Truth and Good 


Lost truth — which thou perchance 


we name. 



J^illiaiTi €»ortion ^t^aht 



CHRISTMAS NIGHT OF '62 

The wintry blast goes wailing by, 

The snow is falling overhead; 

I hear the lonely sentry's tread. 
And distant watch-fires light the sky. 

Dim forms go flitting through the gloom; 
The soldiers cluster round the blaze 
To talk of other Christmas days, 

And softly speak of home and home. 

My sabre swinging overhead 

Gleams in the watch-fire's fitful glow. 
While fiercely drives the blinding snow. 

And memory leads me to the dead. 

My thoughts go wandering to and fro. 
Vibrating 'twixt the Now and Then; 
I see the low-browed home again, 

The old hall wreathed with mistletoe. 

A.nd sweetly from the far-oflp years 
Comes borne the laughter faint and low, 



The voices of the Long Ago ! 
My eyes are wet with tender tears. 

I feel again the mother-kiss, 
I see again the glad surprise 
That lightened up the tranquil eyes 

And brimmed them o'er with tears of 
bliss, ^ 

As, rushing from the old hall-door. 

She fondly clasped her wayward boy — 
Her face all radiant with the joy 

She felt to see him home once more. 

My sabre swinging on the bough 

Gleams in the watch-fire's fitful glow, 
While fiercely drives the blinding 
snow 

Aslant upon my saddened brow. 

Those cherished faces all are gone ! 
Asleep within the quiet graves 
Where lies the snow in drifting waves, — • 

And I am sitting here alone. 



422 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



There 's not a comrade here to-night 
But knows that loved ones far away 
On bended knees this night will pray: 

" God bring our darling from the fight." 

But there are none to wish me back, 
For me no yearning prayers arise. 
The lips are mute and closed the eyes ■ 

My home is in the bivouac. 

In the Army of Northern Virginia. 



DREAMING IN THE TRENCHES 

I PICTURE her there in the quaint old room, 
Where the fading fire-light starts and 
falls, 
Alone in the twilight's tender gloom 

With the shadows that dance on the dim- 
lit walls. 

Alone, while those faces look silently 
down 
From their antique frames in a grim re- 
pose — 
Slight scholarly Ralph in his Oxford gown, 
And stanch Sir Alan, who died for Mont- 



There are gallants gay in crimson and gold. 
There are smiling beauties with pow- 
dered hair, 
But she sits there, fairer a thousand-fold, 
Leaning dreamily back in her low arm- 
chair. 



And the roseate shadows of fading light 
Softly clear steal over the sweet young 
face. 

Where a woman's tenderness blends to-night 
With the guileless pride of a knightly 



Her hands lie clasped in a listless way 
On the old Romance — which she holds 
on her knee — 
Of Tristram the bravest of knights in the 
fray. 
And Iseult, who waits by the sounding 
sea. 

And her proud, dark eyes wear a softened 
look 
As she watches the dying embers fall: 
Perhaps she dreams of the knight in the 
book. 
Perhaps of tlie pictures that smile on the 
wall. 

What fancies I wonder are thronging her 
brain, 
For her cheeks flush warm with a crim- 
son glow ! 
Perhaps — ah ! me, how foolish and vain ! 
But I 'd give my life to believe it so ! 

Well, whether I ever march home again 
To offer my love and a stainless name, 

Or whether I die at the head of my men, — 
I '11 be true to the end all the same. 

Petersburg Trenches, 1S64. 



€itu^ Sl^un^on €oan 



A DREAM OF FLOWERS 

Even at their fairest still I love the less 
The blossoms of the garden than the blooms 
Won by the mountain climber: theirs the 

tints 
And forms that most delight me, — theirs 

the charm 
That lends an aureole to the azure heights 
Whereon they flourish, children of the dews 
And mountain streamlets. 

But in sleep sometimes 
Mountain and meadow blend their gifts in 

one. 
This morn I trod the secret path of dreams, 



And, lo ! my wilding flowers sprang thick 

around me, 
Alpine and lowland too; and with them 

sprang 
Blossoms that never had I known before 
Except in poets' pages — fancied forms 
And hu^s that shone in more than Alpine 

light. 
Poppies incarnadine and rosemary, 
And violets with gentle eyes were there, 
And their sweet cousinry, the periwinkles; 
Night-blooming cereus, agrimony, rue, 
And stately damask roses. Eastern queens, 
The noblest-born of flowers; and by their 

side 



TITUS MUNSON COAN — NORA PERRY 



423 



The panthers of the meadow, tiger-lilies; 
Came with her trembling banner of per- 
fumed bells 
The lily of the valley, and the jessamine, 
Princesses twain with maiden fragrance 

pure ; 
The azure of the Alpine gentian shone 
Intense beneath the rival blue of heaven ; 
Along the heights blossomed the Alpine 

rose. 
And higher yet the starry edelweiss, — 
And sweet the wind came o'er the visioned 
Alp. 

But now I seemed to wonder at the view, 
To my dimmed sense a riddle; then was 

'ware 
Of daytime colors blending with my dream, 
And cleared my eyes, and saw my roguish 

girl, 
A witch of seven, with flowers in both her 

hands. 
Fresh-gathered in my garden, stealing in 
Upon my morning vision, and waving me 
Their fragrance. " Wake ! " she cried, and 

I awoke 
To her, a sweeter flower than all the rest ! 

THE CRYSTAL 

Olympian sunlight is the Poet's sphere; 
Yet of his rapt unconscious thought at play 
The wintry stream gave image but to-day, 
When first the frost his magic made appear; 



The darkling water dreamed, and mirrored 

clear, 
A thousand miles adown, the clouds' array. 
Nor any gleam or stirring did betray 
The secret of the transformation near — 
When, lo ! what beauty flashing from the 

night 
Of formless atoms ! Nature stirs amain. 
Building her crystal arches firm and well. 
And framing fairy cantilevers bright. 
So broods the vision in the Poet's brain. 
And leaps to life beneath a kindred spell. 

NIHIL HUMANI ALIENUM 

In the loud waking world I come and go. 

And yet the twofold gates of dreams are 
mine ; 

I have seen the battle-lightnings round me 
shine. 

And won the stillness of Hawaiian snow; 

The votary's sad surrender do I know; 

Joy have I had of passion and of wine ; 

Nor shines the light of poesy less divine 

Though science's white cressets round me 
glow. 

Yet never in me are these things at feud; 

They make one sum of rapture; in my 
heart 

Their memories rise and glow, a living good ; 

Dreams, banquets, battles, prayers, ca- 
rousals, art. 

All form for me a vital brotherhood ; 

From nothing human let me hold apart ! 



Il^ora ^crrp 



CRESSID 

Has any one seen my Fair, 
Has any one seen my Dear ? 
Could any one tell me where 
And whither she went from here ? 

The road is winding and long, 
With many a turn and twist. 
And one could easy go wrong. 
Or ever one thought or list. 

How should one know my Fair, 
And how should one know my Dear ? 
By the dazzle of sunlight hair 
That smites like a golden spear. 



By the eyes that say " Beware," 
By the smile that beckons you near, — 
This is to know my Fair, 
This is to know my Dear. 

Rough and bitter as gall 

The voice that suddenly comes 

Over the windy wall 

Where the fishermen have their homes: 

" Ay, ay, we know full well 
The way your fair one went: 
She led by the ways of Hell, 
And into its torments sent 



424 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



" The boldest and bravest here, 
Who knew nor guilt nor guile, 
Who knew not shadow of fear 
Till he followed that beckoning smile. 

" Now would you find your Fair, 
Now would you find your Dear ? 
Go, turn and follow her where 
And whither she went from here, 

" Along by the winding path 
That leads by the old sea-wall: 
The wind blows wild with wrath, 
And one could easily fall 

" From over the rampart there. 
If one should lean too near, 
To look for the sunlight hair 
That smites like a golden spear ! " 



THE LOVE-KNOT 

Tying her bonnet under her chin, 
She tied her raven ringlets in; 
But not alone in the silken snare 
Did she catch her lovely floating hair. 
For, tying her bonnet under her chin, 
She tied a young man's heart within. 

They were strolling together up the hill, 
Where the wind comes blowing merry and 

chill; 
And it blew the curls, a frolicsome race. 
All over the happy peach-colored face. 
Till, scolding and laughing, she tied them 

in, _ _ 

Under her beautiful dimpled chin. 

And it blew a color, bright as the bloom 
Of the pinkest fuchsia's tossing plume, 
All over the cheeks of the prettiest girl 
That ever imprisoned a romping curl. 
Or, tying her bonnet under her chin. 
Tied a young man's heart within. 

Steeper and steeper grew the hill; 
Madder, merrier, chillier still 
The western wind blew down, and played 
The wildest tricks with the little maid, 
As, tying her bonnet under her chin. 
She tied a young man's heart within. 



O western wind, do you think it was fair 
To play such tricks with her floating hair ? 
To gladly, gleefully do your best 
To blow her against the young man's breast, 
Where he as gladly folded her in, 
And kissed her mouth and her dimpled 
chin? 

Ah ! Ellery Vane, you little thought, 
An hour ago, when you besought 
This country lass to walk with you. 
After the sun had dried the dew. 
What perilous danger you 'd be in. 
As she tied her bonnet under her chin ! 

RIDING DOWN 

Oh, did you see him riding down. 
And riding down, while all the town 
Came out to see, came out to see, 
And all the bells rang mad with glee ? 

Oh, did you hear those bells ring out, 
The bells ring out, the people shout, 
And did you hear that cheer on cheer 
That over all the bells rang clear ? 

And did you see the waving flags, 
The fluttering flags, the tattered flags. 
Red, white, and blue, shot through and 

through, 
Baptized with battle's deadly dew ? 

And did you hear the drums' gay beat, 
The drums' gay beat, the bugles sweet. 
The cymbals' clash, the cannons' crash. 
That rent the sky with sound and flash ? 

And did you see me waiting there, 
Just waiting there and watching there. 
One little lass, amid the mass 
That pressed to see the hero pass ? 

And did you see him smiling down. 
And smiling down, as riding down 
With slowest pace, with stately grace, 
He caught the vision of a face, — 

My face uplifted red and white. 
Turned red and white with sheer delight, 
To meet the eyes, the smiling eyes, 
Outflashing in their swift surprise ? 



NORA PERRY — JAMES HERBERT MORSE 



425 



Ob, did you see how swift it came, 
How swift it came, like suddeu flame, 
That smile to me, to only me. 
The little lass who blushed to see ? 

And at the windows all along, 
Oh, all along, a lovely throng 
Of faces fair, beyond compare. 
Beamed out upon him riding there ! 

Each face was like a radiant gem, 
A sparkling gem, and yet for them 
No swift smile came, like sudden flame, 
No arrowy glance took certain aim. 

He turned away from all their grace, 
From all that grace of perfect face, 
He turned to me, to only me. 
The little lass who blushed to see ! 

WHO KNOWS? 

Who knows the thoughts of a child, 
The angel unreconciled 



To the new strange world that lies 
Outstretched to its wondering eyes ? 

Who knows if a piteous fear. 
Too deep for a sob or a tear. 
Is beneath that breathless gaze 
Of sudden and swift amaze, — 

Some fear from the dim unknown, 
Some shadow like black mist blown 
Across the heavenly ray 
Of this new-come dawning day ? 

But the smile which as sudden and 

swift 
Breaks through the shadowy rift, — 
From what far heaven or near, 
What unseen blissful sphere, 

Comes the smile of a little child, 
This angel unreconciled 
To the new, strange world that lies 
Outstretched to its wondering eyes ? 



%a\nt^ ^ttbttt sr^or^c 



SILENCE 

Come, Silence, thou sweet reasoner. 
Lay thy soft hand on all that stir — 
On grass and shrub and tree and flower. 
And let this be thine own dear hour. 

No more across the neighbor rill 
To that lone cottage on the hill 
Shall wonder with her questions go, 
Seeking if joy be there or no. 

No longer shall the listening ear 
Go seeking grief afar, or near; 
Or eye be turned to find a stain 
In the dear God's well-ruled domain. 

The cricket tunes his slender throat 
And lifts an early evening note. 
The late bird ventures one last flight 
Of song, and nestles for the night. 

High up beyond the cloud-rift dun 
One spot of blue yet shows the sun ; 
On that I fix a silent eye : 
All earth, all life, all else pass by. 



BROOK SONG 

Brook, would thou couldst flow 
With a music all thine own — 
Thy babble of music alone — 
Not a word of the Long Ago 
In thy brawling down below, 
Not a sigh of the wind by thee, 
The wind in the willow tree ! 

Or, Brook, if thou couldst go, 
As once, in the prime of May, 
For a whole long holiday, 
When the cowslips down below. 
And the violets watched thy flow, 
With the babble of two by thee. 
And the wind in the willow tree ! 

Brook, if thou couldst so 
Make a living music, and sing 
Of a faded, bygone spring. 
And down by the violets flow 
With that babble of Long Ago, — 

1 would listen forever to thee 
And the wind in the willow tree. 



426 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



THE WILD GEESE 

The wiM geese, flying in the night, behold 
Our sunken towns lie underneath a sea, 
Which buoys them on its billows. Liberty 
They have, but such as those frail barques 

of old 
That crossed unsounded mains to search 

our wold. 
To them the night unspeakable is, free ; 
They have the moon and stars for company; 
To them no foe but the remorseless cold, 
And froth of polar currents darting past. 
That have been nigh the world's-end lair of 

storms. 
Enormous billows float their fragile forms. 
Yes, those frail beings, tossing on the Vast 
Of wild revolving winds, feel no dismay ! 
'Tis we who dread the thunder, and not 

they. 



HIS STATEMENT OF THE CASE 

"Now half a hundred years had I been 

born — 
So many and so brief — when made aware. 
By Time's blunt looks, of hoar-frost in my 

hair. 
I turned to one of twenty, in the corn, 
At husking time, that blissful autumn morn. 
And said, ' What if the red ear fall to me ? ' 
I would not for the world have any see 
The look, half doubtful, mazeful, half in 

scorn, 
That grew through all degrees, then broke 

in laughter. 
As she ran down among the beardless 

men. 
I left the husking, nor returned thereafter, 



That autumn morn, nor any morn since 

then. 
But you shall see gray beards in a long row. 
Upon the rustic roads where I now go." 



THE WAYSIDE 

There are some quiet ways — 

Ay, not a few — 
Where the affections grow, 

And noble days 

Distil a gentle praise 

That, as cool dew. 

Or aromatic gums 

Within a bower, 

In after-times becomes 

A calm, perennial dower. 

There wayside bush and briar ! 
These lend a grace, 

Flashing a glad assent 
To sweet desire. 
All their interior choir 
The woodlands place 
At service to command; 
Man need not know. 
In such a favored land, 
The ways that proud folk go. 

Perhaps the day may be, 
Dear heart of mine, 

When riches press too near 
Outside, and we, 
To live unfettered, flee 
The great and fine. 
And hide our little home 
In some deep grove, 
Where they alone may come 
Who only come for love. 



3|oaquin ^iikt 



COLUMBUS 



Behind him lay the gray Azores, 

Behind the Gates of Hercules; 
Before him not the ghost of shores, 

Before him only shoreless seas. 
The good mate said : " Now must we pray, 

For lo ! the very stars are gone. 
Brave Admiral, speak, what shall I say ? " 

" Why, say, ' Sail on I sail on ! and ou ! ' " 



" My men grow mutinous day by day ; 

My men grow ghastly wan and weak." 
The stout mate thought of home ; a . 
spray 

Of salt wave washed his swarthy 
cheek. 
" What shall I say, brave Admiral, say. 

If we sight naught but seas at dawn ? " 
" Why, you shall say at break of day, 

' Sail on ! sail on ! sail on ! and on I ' " 



JOAQUIN MILLER 



427 



They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, 

Until at last the blanched mate said: 
" Why, now not even God would know 

Should I and all my men fall dead. 
These very winds forget their way, 

For God f<rom these dread seas is gone. 
Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and 
say" — 

He said: " Sail on ! sail on ! and on ! " 

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake 
the mate: 

" This mad sea shows his teeth to-night. 
He curls his lip, he lies in wait, 

With lifted teeth, as if to bite ! 
Brave Admiral, say but one good word: 

What shall we do when hope is gone ? " 
The words leapt like a leaping sword: 

" Sail on ! sail on ! sail on ! and on ! " 

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, 

And peered through darkness. Ah, that 
night 
Of all dark nights ! And then a speck — 

A light ! A light ! A light ! A light ! 
It grew, a starlit flag unfurled ! 

It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. 
He gained a world; he gave that world 

Its grandest lesson: " On ! sail on ! " 



AT THE GRAVE OF WALKER 

He lies low in the levelled sand. 
Unsheltered from the tropic sun, 
And now of all he knew not one 
Will speak him fair in that far land. 
Perhaps 'twas this that made me seek. 
Disguised, his grave one winter-tide; 
A weakness for the weaker side, 
A siding with the helpless weak. 

A palm not far held out a hand. 
Hard by a long green bamboo swung. 
And bent like some great bow unstrung, 
And quivered like a willow wand; 
Perched on its fruits that crooked hang, 
Beneath a broad banana's leaf, 
A bird in rainbow splendor sang 
A low, sad song, of tempered grief. 

No sod, no sign, no cross nor stone, 
But at his side a cactus green 
Upheld its lances long and keer ; 
It stood in sacred sands alone. 



Flat-palmed and fierce with lifted spears; 
One bloom of crimson crowned its head, 
A drop of blood, so bright, so red, 
Yet redolent as roses' tears. 

In my left hand I held a shell. 
All rosy lipped and pearly red; 
I laid it by his lowly bed. 
For he did love so passing well 
The grand songs of the solemn sea. 

shell ! sing well, wild, with a will. 
When storms blow loud and birds be still, 
The wildest sea-song known to thee ! 

1 said some things with folded hands, 
Soft whispered in the dim sea-sound, 
And eyes held humbly to the ground, 
And frail knees sunken in the sands. 
He had done more than this for me. 
And yet I could not well do more: 

I turned me down the olive shore, 
And set a sad face to the sea. 



WESTWARD HO! 

What strength ! what strife ! what rude 

unrest ! 
What shocks ! what half-shaped armies 

met ! 
A mighty nation moving west. 
With all its steely sinews set 
Against the living forests. Hear 
The shouts, the shots of pioneer, 
The rended forests, rolling wheels. 
As if some half-checked army reels. 
Recoils, redoubles, comes again. 
Loud-sounding like a hurricane. 

O bearded, stalwart, westmost men. 

So tower-like, so Gothic built ! 

A kingdom won without the guilt 

Of studied battle, that hath been 

Your blood's inheritance. . . . Your heirs 

Know not your tombs: the great plough' 

shares 
Cleave softly through the mellow loam 
Where you have made eternal home, 
And set no sign. Your epitaphs 
Are writ in furrows. Beauty laughs 
While through the green ways wandering 
Beside her love, slow gathering 
White, starry-hearted May-time blooms 
Above your lowly levelled tombs; 
And then below the spotted sky 



428 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



She stops, she leans, she wonders why 
The ground is heaved and broken so, 
And why the grasses darker grow 
And droop and trail like wounded wing. 

Yea, Time, the grand old harvester, 

Has gathered you from wood and plain. 

We call to you again, again; 

The rush and rumble of the car 

Comes back in answer. Deep and wide 

The wheels of progress have passed on; 

The silent pioneer is gone. 

His ghost is moving down the trees. 

And now we push the memories 

Of bluif, bold men who dared and died 

In foremost battle, quite aside. 



CROSSING THE PLAINS 

What great yoked brutes with briskets 

low, 
With wrinkled necks like buffalo, 
With round, brown, liquid, pleading eyes, 
That turned so slow and sad to you, 
That shone like love's eyes soft with tears. 
That seemed to plead, and make replies. 
The while they bowed their necks and drew 
The creaking load; and looked at you. 
Their sable briskets swept the ground, 
Their cloven feet kept solemn sound. 

Two sullen bullocks led the line, 
Their great eyes shining bright like wine; 
Two sullen captive kings were they, 
That had in time held herds at bay. 
And even now they crushed the sod 
With stolid sense of majesty. 
And stately stepped and stately trod. 
As if 't were something still to be 
Kings even in captivity. 



VAQUERO 

His broad-brimmed hat pushed back with 

careless air. 
The proud vaquero sits his steed as free 
As winds that toss his black abundant hair. 
No rover ever swept a lawless sea 
With such a haught and heedless air as he 
Who scorns the path, and bounds with 

swift disdain 
Away, a peon born, yet born to be 
A splendid king; behold him ride and reign. 



How brave he takes his herds in branding 

days. 
On timbered hills that belt about the plain; 
He climbs, he wheels, he shouts through 

winding ways 
Of hiding ferns and hanging fir; the rein 
Is loose, the rattling spur drives swift; the 

mane 
Blows free ; the bullocks rush in storms be- 
fore; 
They turn with lifted heads, they rush 

again. 
Then sudden plunge from out the wood, 

and pour 
A cloud upon the plain with one terrific 

roar. 

Now sweeps the tawny man on stormy 

steed. 
His gaudy trappings tossed about and 

blown 
About the limbs as lithe as any reed; 
The swift long lasso twirled above is thrown 
From flying hand; the fall, thef earful groan 
Of bullock toiled and tumbled in the dust — 
The black herds onward sweep, and all 

disown 
The fallen, struggling monarch that has 

thrust 
His tongue in rage and rolled his red eyes 

in disgust. 



BY THE PACIFIC OCEAN 

Here room and kingly silence keep 
Companionship in state austere; 
The dignity of death is here. 
The large, lone vastness of the deep;. 
Here toil has pitched his camp to rest: 
The west is banked against the west. 

Above yon gleaming skies of gold 
One lone imperial peak is seen; 
While gathered at his feet in green 
Ten thousand foresters are told: 
And all so still ! so still the air 
That duty drops the web of care. 

Beneath the sunset's golden sheaves 
The awful deep walks with the deep, 
Where silent sea doves slip and sweep, 
And commerce keeps her loom and weaves 
The dead red men refuse to rest; 
Their ghosts illume my lurid West. 



JOAQUIN MILLER 



429 



TWILIGHT AT THE HEIGHTS 

The brave young city by the Balboa seas 
Lies compassed about by the hosts of 

night — 
Lies humming, low, like a hive of bees; 
And the day lies dead. And its spirit's 

flight 
Is far to the west; while the golden bars 
That bound it are broken to a dust of stars. 

Come under my oaks, oh, drowsy dusk ! 
The wolf and the dog; dear incense hour 
When Mother Earth hath a smell of musk, 
And things of the spirit assert their 

power — 
When candles are set to burn in the west — 
Set head and foot to the day at rest. 

DEAD IN THE SIERRAS 

His footprints have failed us, 
Where berries are red, 
And madronos are rankest, — 
The hunter is dead ! 

The grizzly may pass 
By his half-open door; 
May pass and repass 
On his path, as of yore; 

The panther may crouch 
In the leaves on his limb; 
May scream and may scream, — 
It is nothing to him. 

Prone, bearded, and breasted 
Like columns of stone; 
And tall as a pine — 
As a pine overthrown ! 

His camp-fires gone, 
What else can be done 
Than let him sleep on 
Till the light of the sun ? 

Ay, tombless ! what of it ? 
Marble is dust, 
Cold and repellent; 
And iron is rust. 

PETER COOPER 

Give honor and love for evermore 
To this great man gone to rest; 



Peace on the dim Plutonian shore, 
Rest in the land of the blest. 

I reckon him greater than any man 
That ever drew sword in war; 
I reckon him nobler than king or khan, 
Braver and better by far. 

And wisest he in this whole wide land 
Of hoarding till bent and gray; 
For all you can hold in your cold dead hand 
Is what you have given away. 

So whether to wander the stars or to 
rest 
Forever hushed and dumb. 
He gave with a zest and he gave his best — 
Give him the best to come. 

1883. 

TO RUSSIA 

Who tamed your lawless Tartar blood ? 
What David bearded in her den 
The Russian bear in ages when 
You strode your black, unbridled stud, 
A skin-clad savage of your steppes ? 
Why, one who now sits low and weeps, 
Why, one who now wails out' to you, — 
The Jew, the Jew, the homeless Jew. 

Who girt the thews of your young prime 
And bound your fierce divided force ? 
Why, who but Moses shaped your course 
United down the grooves of time ? 
Your mighty millions all to-day 
The hated, homeless Jew obey. 
Who taught all poetry to you ? 
The Jew, the Jew, the hated Jew. 

Who taught you tender Bible tales 

Of honey-lands, of milk and wine ? 

Of happy, peaceful Palestine ? 

Of Jordan's holy harvest vales ? 

Who gave the patient Christ ? I say, 

Who gave your Christian creed ? Yea, yea, 

Who gave your very God to you ? 

Your Jew ! Your Jew ! Your hated Jew ! 



THE VOICE OF THE DOVE 

Come listen, O Love, to the voice of the 

dove, 
Come, hearken and hear him say, 



43° 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



There are many To-morrows, my Love, 

my Love, — 
There is only one To-day. 

And all day long you can hear him say 
This day in purple is rolled. 
And the baby stars of the milky-way — 
They are cradled in cradles of gold. 

Now what is thy secret, serene gray dove, 

Of singing so sweetly alway ? 

" There are many To-morrows, my Love, 

my Love, — 
There is only one To-day." 

JUANITA 

You will come, my bird, Bonita ? 
Come ! For I by steep and stone 
Have built such nest for you, Juanita, 
As not eagle bird hath known. 

Rugged ! Rugged as Parnassus ! 
Rude, as all roads I have trod — 
Yet are steeps and stone-strewn passes 
Smooth o'erhead, and nearest God. 

Here black thunders of my caiion 
Shake its walls in Titan wars ! 
Here white sea-born clouds companion 
With such peaks as know the stars ! 

Here madrona, manzanita — 
Here the snarling chaparral 
House and hang o'er steeps, Juanita, 
Where the gaunt wolf loved to dwell ! 



Dear, I took these trackless masses 
Fresh from Him who fashioned them; 
Wrought in rock, and hewed fair passes. 
Flower set, as sets a gem. 

Aye, I built in woe. God willed it; 
Woe that passeth ghosts of guilt; 
Yet I built as His birds builded — 
Builded, singing as I built. 

All is finished ! Roads of flowers 
Wait your loyal little feet. 
All completed ? Nay, the hours 
Till you come are incomplete. 

Steep below me lies the valley, 
Deep below me lies the town. 
Where great sea-ships ride and rally, 
And the world walks up and down. 

O, the sea of lights far streaming 
When the thousand flags are furled — 
When the gleaming bay lies dreaming 
As it duplicates the world ! 

You will come, my dearest, truest ? 
Come, my sovereign queen of ten; 
My blue skies will then be bluest; 
My white rose be whitest then: 

' Then the song ! Ah, then the sabre 
Flashing up the walls of night ! 
Hate of wrong and love of neighbor — 
Rhymes of battle for the Right ! 



SJo^cpJj #'€onnot 



WHAT WAS MY DREAM? 

"AND MY SPIRIT WAS TROUBLED TO 
KNOW THE dream" 

What was my dream ? Though conscious- 
ness be clear, 
I hold no memory of the potent thing. 
Yet feel the force of it — a creeping fear, 
^ hope, a horror, and a sense austere 

Of revelation, stayed at thought's ex- 
treme : 
As when the wind is passed, the pines 
still swing; 



Or when the storm has blown, the waves 
yet fling 

To shore the battered corpse and shat- 
tered beam; 

So sways my troubled mind. What 
was my dream ? 

What was my dream ? A heath, starlit 
and wide. 
With marching giants marshalled to and 
fro 
As if for strife ? A moonlit river's tide, 
Where every form I love may be descried 
Afloat and past all effort to redeem ? 



JOSEPH OCONNOR — CHARLES GOODRICH WHITING 431 



A garden rare, with Nature all aglow 
Among her fruits and flowers, that, as 
they grow, 
Breathe perfumed melody, full glad to 

teem 
With every germ of life ? What was 
my dream ? 

What was my dream ? A distant, un- 
known world 
That elemental ether doth immerse, 
With matter in a wild disorder hurled, 
And primal forces in contention whirled, 
A senseless demon over all supreme. 
Who seeks with apish malice to reverse 
Creative influences, and coerce 

A universe to death, and bring its 

scheme 
To chaos whence it came ? What was 
my dream ? 

What was my dream ? Some Indian sage's 
scroll 
May keep for me, perchance, a glimpse or 
glint; 
Some Hebrew prophet's vision may un- 
roll 
Its veils and show this secret of the soul; 
At times, among the murmurs of a 
stream, 
I catch the far, faint echo of a hint, — 
Or seem to feel in some suggestive tint. 
Where golden glories of the sunset 

gleam, 
A presence unrevealed. What was my 
dream ? 

What was my dream ? A silver trumpet 
blown 
Thrills with a touch of the strong 
mystery; 



The buds of spring, the leaves of autumn 

strown. 
The tempest's flashing blade and braggart 
tone 
Remind me of the unremembered 
theme. 
Where billows curve along the shining 

sea. 
It breaks through lucent green in foamy 
glee. 
And hides uncaught; not seldom do I 

deem 
Love's sigh its harbinger ? What was 
my dream ? 

THE GENERAL'S DEATH 

The general dashed along the road 

Amid the pelting rain; 
How joyously his bold face glowed 

To hear our cheers' refrain ! 

His blue blouse flapped in wind and wet, 
His boots were splashed with mire, 

But round his lips a smile was set. 
And in his eyes a fire. 

A laughing word, a gesture kind, — 

We did not ask for more. 
With thirty weary miles behind, 

A weary fight before. 

The gun grew light to every man, 
The crossed belts ceased their stress, 

As onward to the column's van 
We watched our leader press. 

Within an hour we saw him lie, 

A bullet in his brain. 
His manly face turned to the sky, 

And beaten by the rain. 



Cfjatk^ <aootincl) IBgiting 



BLUE HILLS BENEATH THE 
HAZE 

Blue hills beneath the haze 
That broods o'er distant ways. 
Whether ye may not hold 
Secrets more dear than gold, — 
This is the ever new 
Puzzle within your blue. 



Is 't not a softer sun 

Whose smiles yon hills have 'won ? 

Is 't not a sweeter air 

That folds the fields so fair ? 

Is 't not a finer rest 

That I so fain would test ? 

The far thing beckons most, 
The near becomes the lost. 



432 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Not what we have is worth, 


Gathered exulting to insult your 


But that which has no birth 


Great eagle in his fall ? 


Or breath within the ken 




Of transitory men. 






j THE WAY TO HEAVEN 


THE EAGLE'S FALL 


' Heaven is open every day; 




In night also 


The eagle, did ye see him fall ? — ■ 


He that would wend his upward way 


Aflight beyond mid-air 


May surely go. 


Erewhile his mighty pinions bore him, 


There is no wall to that demesne 


His eyry left, the sun before him; 


Where God resides; nor any screen 


And not a bird could dare 


To hide the glories of that scene, — 


To match with that tremendous motion, 


If man will know. 


Through fire and flood, 'twixt sky and 




ocean, — 


The ladder which the Hebrew saw 


But did ye see the eagle fall ? 


Whenas he slept. 




From earth God never doth updraw, 


And so ye saw the eagle fall ! 


But still hath kept; 


Struck in his flight of pride 


And angels ever to and fro 


He hung in air one lightning moment, 


On errands swiftly glide and glow, — 


As wondering what the deadly blow meant, 


For love above, for love below, 


And what his blood's ebb tide. 


Its rounds have stept. 


Whirling off sailed a loosened feather; 




Then headlong, pride and flight together, — 


Thereon the saint doth daily mount 


'T was thus ye saw the eagle fall ! 


Above the stars, 




Caring nowhit to take account 


Thus did ye see the eagle fall ! 


Of earthly bars; 


But on the sedgy plain. 


Since well 't is known to such as he 


Where closed the monarch's eye in dying. 


There are no guards but pass him free; 


Marked ye the screaming and the vying 


He hath the watchword and the key, 


Wherewith the feathered train, 


In peace, or wars. 


Sparrow and jackdaw, hawk and vulture, 





Cfjark^ oBtitoarti Carrpl 



THE SONG IN THE DELL 

I KNOW a way 
Of hearing what the larks and linnets say: 
The larks tell of the sunshine and the 

sky; 
The linnets from the hedges make reply. 
And boast of hidden nests with mocking 
lay. 

I know a way 
Of keeping near the rabbits at their play: 
They tell me of the cool and shady nooks 
Where waterfalls disturb the placid 
brooks 
That I may go and frolic in the spray. 



I know a way 
Of catching dewdrops on a night in May, 
And threading them upon a spear of 

green. 
That through their sides translucent may 
be seen 
The sparkling hue that emeralds display. 

I know a way 
Of trapping sunbeams as they nimbly play 
At hide-and-seek with meadow-grass 

and flowers. 
And holding them in store for dreary 
hours 
When vdnds are chill and all the sky is 
gray. 



CHARLES EDWARD CARRYL — SIDNEY. LANIER 



433 



I know a way 
Of stealing fragrance from the new-mown 
hay 
And storing it in flasks of petals made, 
To scent the air when all the flowers fade 
And leave the woodland world to sad decay. 

I know a way 
Of coaxing snowflakes in their flight to 
stay 
So still awhile, that, as they hang in air, 
I weave them into frosty lace, to wear 
About my head upon a sultry day. 

ROBINSON CRUSOE 

The night was thick and hazy 
When the Piccadilly Daisy 
Carried down the crew and captain in the 
sea; 
And I think the water drowned 'em, 
For they never, never found 'em, 
And I know they did n't come ashore with 
me. 

Oh ! 'twas very sad and lonely 

When I found myself the only 
Population on this cultivated shore; 

But I 've made a little tavern 

In a rocky little cavern. 
And I sit and watch for people at the door. 

I spent no time in. looking 
For a girl to do my cooking. 

As I 'm quite a clever hand at making 
stews; 
But I had that fellow Friday 
Just to keep the tavern tidy, 

And to put a Sunday polish on my shoes. 

I have a little garden 

That I 'm cultivating lard in, 



As the things I eat are rather tough and 
dry; 
For I live on toasted lizards. 
Prickly pears, and parrot gizzards, 

And I 'm really very fond of beetle-pie. 

The clothes I had were furry. 
And it made me fret and worry 

When I found the moths were eating o£E 
the hair; 
And I had to scrape and sand 'em, 
And I boiled 'em and I tanned 'em, 

Till I got the fine morocco suit I wear. 

I sometimes seek diversion 

In a family excursion 
With the few domestic animals you see; 

And we take along a carrot 

As refreshments for the parrot, 
And a little can of jungleberry tea. 

Then we gather as we travel 

Bits of moss and dirty gravel, 
And we chip off little specimens of stone ; 

And we carry home as prizes 

Funny bugs of handy sizes, 
Just to give the day a scientific tone. 

If the roads are wet and muddy 
We remain at home and study, — 

For the Goat is very clever at a sum, — 
And the Dog, instead of fighting, 
'Studies ornamental writing, 

While the Cat is taking lessons on the 
drum. 

We retire at eleven, 

And we rise again at seven; 

And I wish to call attention, as I close, 
To the fact that all the scholars 
Are correct about their collars, 

And particular in turning out their toes. 



it>itincp Hanict 



SONG FOR "THE JAQUERIE " 

BETRAYAL 

The sun has kissed the violet sea. 
And burned the violet to a rose. 



O Sea ! wouldst thou not better be 

Mere violet still ? Who knows ? Who 
knows ? 
Well hides the violet in the wood: 
The dead leaf wrinkles her a hood. 
And winter's ill is violet's good; 



434 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



But the bold glory of the rose, 
It quickly comes and quickly goes, — 
Ked petals whirling in white snows, 
Ah me ! 

The sun has burnt the rose-red sea: 
The rose is turned to ashes gray. 
Sea, O Sea, mightst thou but be 
The violet thou hast been to-day ! 
The sun is brave, the sun is bright, 
The sun is lord of love and light, 
But after him it cometh night. 
Dim anguish of the lonesome dark ! — 
Once a girl's body, stiff and stark. 
Was laid in a tomb without a mark, 
Ah me ! 

THE HOUND 

The hound was cuffed, the hound was 

kicked, 
O' the ears was cropped, o' the tail was 
nicked, 
{All.) Oo-hoo-o, howled the hound. 
The hound into his kennel crept; 
He rarely wept, he never slept. 
His niouth he always open kept. 

Licking his bitter wound, 
The hound, 
{All.) U-lu-lo, howled the hound. 

A star upon his kennel shone 

That showed the hound a meat-bare bone. 

{All.) O hungry was the hound ! 
The hound had but a churlish wit: 
He seized the bone, he crunched, he bit. 
" An thou wert Master, I had slit 

Thy throat with a huge wound," 
Quo' hound. 
{All.) O, angry was the hound. 

The star in castle-windows shone. 
The Master lay abed, alone. 

{All.) Oh ho, why not ? quo' hound. 
He leapt, he seized the throat, he tore 
The Master, head from neck, to floor, 
And rolled the head i' thp kennel door. 
And fled and salved his wound. 
Good hound ! 
{All.) U-lu-lo, howled the hound. 



NIGHT AND DAY 

The innocent, sweet Day is dead. 
Dark Night hath slain her in her bed. 



O, Moors are as fierce to kill as to wed ! 

— Put out the light, said he. 

A sweeter light than ever rayed 
From star of heaven or eye of maid 
Has vanished in the unknown Shade. 

— She 's dead, she 's dead, said he. 

Now, in a wild, sad after-mood 
The tawny Night sits still to brood 
Upon the dawn-time when he wooed. 

— I would she lived, said he. 

Star-memories of happier times. 
Of loving deeds and lovers' rhymes. 
Throng forth in silvery pantomimes. 

— Come back, O Day ! said he. 



THE STIRRUP-CUP 

Death, thou 'rt a cordial old and rare: 
Look how compounded, with what care ! 
Time got his wrinkles reaping thee 
Sweet herbs from all antiquity. 

David to thy distillage went, 
Keats, and Gotama excellent, 
Omar Khayydm, and Chaucer bright, 
And Shakespeare for a king-delight. 

Then, Time, let not a drop be spilt: 
Hand me the cup whene'er thou wilt; 
'Tis thy rich stirrup-cup to me; 
I '11 drink it down right smilingly. 



SONG OF THE CHATTA- 
HOOCHEE 

Out of the hills of Habersham, 

Down the valleys of Hall, 
I hurry amain to reach the plain. 
Run the rapid and leap the fall, 
Split at the rock and together again, 
Accept my bed, or narrow or wide, 
And flee from folly on every side 
With a lover's pain to attain the plain 

Far from the hills of Habersham, 

Far from the valleys of Hall. 

All down the hills of Habersham, 
All through the valleys of Hall, 
The rushes cried Abide, abide. 
The wilful waterweeds held me thrall. 
The laving laurel turned my tide, 



SIDNEY LANIER 



435 



The ferns and the fondling grass said 

Stay, 
The dewberry dipped for to work delay, 
And the little reeds sighed Abide, abide, 

Here in the hills of Habersham, 

Here in the valleys of Hall. 

High o'er the hills of Habersham, 

Veiling the valleys of Hall, 
The hickory told me manifold 
Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall 
Wrought me her shadowy self to hold. 
The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the 

pine, 
Overleaning, with flickering meaning and 

sign. 
Said, Pass not, so cold, these manifold 

Deep shades of the hills of Habersham, 

These glades in the valleys of Hall. 

And oft in the hills of Habersham, 
And oft in the valleys of Hall, 
The white quartz shone, and the smooth 

brook-stone 
Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl. 
And many a luminous jewel lone 
— Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist. 
Ruby, garnet, and amethyst — 
Made lures with the lights of streaming 
stone 
In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, 
In the beds of the valleys of Hall. 

But oh, not the hills of Habersham, 
And oh, not the valleys of Hall 
Avail: I am fain for to water the plain. 
Downward the voices of Duty call — 
Downward, to toil and be mixed with the 

main, 
The dry fields burn, and the mills are to 

turn. 
And a myriad flowers mortally yearn. 
And the lordly main from beyond the plain 
Calls o'er the hills of Habersham, 
Calls through the valleys of Hall. 



THE MARSHES OF GLYNN 

Glooms of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided 

and woven 
With intricate shades of the vines that 

myriad-cloven 
Clamber the forks of the multiform 

boughs, — 



Emerald twilights, — 
Virginal shy lights. 
Wrought of the leaves to allure to the 

whisper of vows. 
When lovers pace timidly down through 

the green colonnades 
Of the dim sweet woods, of the dear dark 
woods, 
Of the heavenly woods and glades. 
That run to the radiant marginal sand- 
beach within 
The wide sea-marshes of Glynn ; — 

Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noon- 
day fire, — 

Wildwood privacies, closets of lone desire. 

Chamber from chamber parted with waver- 
ing arras of leaves, — 

Cells for the passionate pleasure of prayer 
to the soul that grieves, 

Pure with a sense of the passing of saints 
through the wood, 

Cool for the dutiful weighing of ill with 
good; — 

braided dusks of the oak and woven 

shades of the vine. 
While the riotous noonday sun of the June- 
day long did shine 
Ye held me fast in your heart and I held 

you fast in mine ; 
But now when the noon is no more, and 

riot is rest. 
And the sun is a-wait at the ponderous 

gate of the West, 
And the slant yellow beam down the wood- 
aisle doth seem 
Like a lane into heaven that leads from a 

dream, — 
Ay, now, when my soul all day hath 

drunken the soul of the oak. 
And my heart is at ease from men, and the 

wearisome sound of the stroke 
Of the scythe of time and the trowel of 

trade is low, 
And belief overmasters doubt, and I 

know that I know, 
And my spirit is grown to a lordly great 

compass within. 
That the length and the breadth and the 

sweep of the marshes of Glynn 
Will work me no fear like the fear they 

have wrought me of yore 
When length was fatigue, and when 

breadth was but bitterness sore, 



436 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



And when terror and shrinking and dreary 

unnamable pain 
Drew over me out of the merciless miles 

of the plain, — 

Oh, now, unafraid, I am fain to face 

The vast sweet visage of space. 
To the edge of the wood I am drawn, I am 

drawn, 
Where the gray beach glimmering runs, as 

a belt of the dawn, 
For a mete and a mark 
To the forest-dark : — 

So: 
Affable live-oak, leaning low, — 
Thus — with your favor — soft, with a rev- 
erent hand, 
(Not lightly touching your person, Lord of 

the land !) 
Bending your beauty aside, with a step I 

stand 
On the firm-packed sand. 

Free 
By a world of marsh that borders a world 

of sea. 
Sinuous southward and sinuous north- 
ward the shimmering band 
Of the sand-beach fastens the fringe 

of the marsh to the folds of the 

land. 
Inward and outward to northward and 

southward the beach-lines linger and 

curl 
As a silver- wrought garment that clings to 

and follows the firm sweet limbs of 

a girl. 
Vanishing, swerving, evermore curving 

again into sight, 
Softly the sand-beach wavers away to a 

dim gray looping of light. 
And what if behind me to westward the 

wall of the woods stands high ? 
The world lies east: how ample, the marsh 

and the sea and the sky ! 
A league and a league of marsh-grass, 

waist-high, broad in the blade, 
Green, and all of a height, and unflecked 

with a light or a shade, 
Stretch leisurely off, in a pleasant plain. 
To the terminal blue of the main. 

Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the 
terminal sea ? 
Somehow my soul seems suddenly free 



From the weighing of fate and the sad 

discussion of sin. 
By the length and the breadth and the 

sweep of the marshes of Glynn. 

Ye marshes, how candid and simple and 
no thing- withholding and free 

Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer 
yourselves to the sea ! 

Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the 
rains and the sun. 

Ye spread and span like the catholic man 
who hath mightily won 

God out of knowledge and good out of in- 
finite pain 

And sight out of blindness and purity out 
of a stain. 

As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the 
watery sod, 

Behold I will build me a nest on the great- 
ness of God: 

I will fly in the greatness of God as the 
marsh-hen flies 

In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt 
the marsh and the skies: 

By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends 
in the sod 

I will heartily lay me a-hold on the great- 
ness of God: 

Oh, like to the greatness of God is the 
greatness within 

The range of the marshes, the liberal 
marshes of Glynn. 

And the sea lends large, as the marsh: lo, 

out of his plenty the sea 
Pours fast : full soon the time of the flood- 
tide must be: 
Look how the grace of the sea doth go 
About and about through the intricate 
channels that flow 
Here and there, 
Everywhere, 
Till his waters have flooded the uttermost 

creeks and the low-lying lanes. 
And the marsh is meshed with a million 

veins. 
That like as with rosy and silvery essences 
flow 
In the rose-and-silver evening glow. 
Farewell, my lord Sun ! 
The creeks overflow: a thousand rivulets 



SIDNEY LANIER 



437 



'Twixt the roots of the sod; the blades of 

the marsh-grass stir; 
Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that 

westward whirr; 
Passeth, and all is still; and the currents 

cease to run; 
And the sea and the marsh are one. 

How still the plains of the waters be ! 
The tide is in his ecstasy; 
The tide is at his highest height; 
And it is night. 

And now from the Vast of the Lord will 
the waters of sleep 

Roll in on the souls of men, 

But who will reveal to our waking ken 

The forms that swim and the shapes that 
creep 

Under the waters of sleep ? 

And I would I could know what swimmeth 
below when the tide comes in 

On the length and the breadth of the mar- 
vellous marshes of Glynn. 

THE MOCKING BIRD 

Superb and sole, upon a plumed spray 
That o'er the general leafage boldly grew, 
He summ'd the woods in song; or typic drew 
The watch of hungry hawks, the lone dis- 
may 
Of languid doves when long their lovers 

stray, 
And all birds' passion-plays that sprinkle 

dew 
At morn in brake or bosky avenue. 
Whate'er birds did or dreamed, this bird 

could say. 
Then down he shot, bounced airily along 
The sward, twitched in a grasshopper, made 

song 
Midflight, perched, prinked, and to his art 

again. 
Sweet Science, this large riddle read me 

plain : 
How may the death of that dull insect be 
The life of yon trim Shakespeare on the 

tree? 

THE HARLEQUIN OF DREAMS 

Swift, through some trap mine eyes have 

never found. 
Dim-panelled in the painted scene of Sleep, 



Thou, giant Harlequin of Dreams, dost 
leap 

Upon my spirit's stage. Then Sight and 
Sound, 

Then Space and Time, then Language, 
Mete and Bound, 

And all familiar Forms that firmly keep 

Man's reason in the road, change faces, 
peep 

Betwixt the legs and mock the daily round. 

Yet thou canst more than mock: some- 
times my tears 

At midnight break through bounden lids — 
a sign 

Thou hast a heart ; and oft thy little leaven 

Of dream-taught wisdom works me bet- 
tered years. 

In one night witch, saint, trickster, fool 
divine, 

I think thou'rt Jester at the Court of 
Heaven ! 

A BALLAD OF TREES AND THE 
MASTER 

Into the woods my Master went, 

Clean forspent, forspent. 

Into the woods my Master came, 

Forspent with love and shame. 

But the olives they were not blind to 

Him; 
The little gray leaves were kind to Him; 
The thorn-tree had a mind to Him 
When into the woods He came. 

Out of the woods my Master went, 

And He was well content. 

Out of the woods my Master came. 

Content with death and shame. 

When Death and Shame would woo Him 

last, 
From under the trees they drew Him last: 
'Twas on a tree they slew Him — last. 
When out of the woods He came. 

SUNRISE 

In my sleep I was fain of their fellowship, 

fain 
Of the live-oak, the marsh, and the 

main. 
The little green leaves would not let me 

alone in my sleep; 
Up-breathed from the marshes, a message 

of range and of sweep, 



438 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Xnterwoven with waf tures of wild sea-liber- 
ties, drifting, 
Came through the lapped leaves sift- 
ing, sifting. 

Came to the gates of sleep. 
Then my thoughts, in the dark of the dun- 
geon-keep 
Of the Castle of Captives hid in the City of 

Sleep, 
Upstarted, by twos and by threes assem- 
bling; 
The gates of sleep fell a-trembling 
Like as the lips of a lady that forth falter 
yes, 

Shaken with happiness: 
The gates of sleep stood wide. 

I have waked, I have come, my beloved ! 

I might not abide: 
I have come ere the dawn, O beloved, my 

live-oaks, to hide 
In your gospelling glooms, — to be 
As a lover in heaven, the marsh my marsh 

and the sea my sea. 

Tell me, sweet burly-barked, man-embod- 
ied Tree 

That mine arms in the dark are embracing, 
dost know 

From what fount are these tears at thy feet 
which flow ? 

They rise not from reason, but deeper in- 
consequent deeps. 

Reason 's not one that weeps. 
What logic of greeting lies 

Betwixt dear over-beautiful trees and the 
rain of the eyes ? 



O cunning green leaves, little masters ! 

like as ye gloss 
All the dull-tissued dark with your lumi- 
nous darks that emboss 
The vague blackness of night into pattern 
and plan. 

So, 
(But would I could know, but would I 
could know,) 
With your question embroidering the dark 

of the question of man, — 
So, with your silences purfling this silence 

of man 
While his cry to the dead for some know- 
ledge is under the ban. 

Under the ban, — 
So, ye have wrought me 



Designs on the night of our knowledge, — 

yea, ye have taught me. 
So, 
That haply we know somewhat more than 

we know. 

Ye lispers, whisperers, singers in 

storms. 
Ye consciences murmuring faiths un- 
der forms. 
Ye ministers meet for each passion 

that grieves. 
Friendly, sisterly, sweetheart leaves. 
Oh, rain me down from your darks that 

contain me 
Wisdoms ye winnow from winds that pain 

me, — 
Sift down tremors of sweet-within-sweet 
That advise me of more than they bring, — 

repeat 
Me the woods-smell that swiftly but now 

brought breath 
From the heaven-side bank of the river of 
death, — 
Teach me the terms of silence, — 

preach me 
The passion of patience, — sift me, — 
impeach me, — 

And there, oh there 
As ye hang with your myriad palms up- 
turned in the air, 

Pray me a myriad prayer. 

My gossip, the owl, — is it thou 
That out of the leaves of the low-hanging 
bough. 
As I pass to the beach, art stirred ? 
Dumb woods, have ye uttered a bird ? 



Reverend Marsh, low-couched along the 
sea. 
Old chemist, rapt in alchemy, 
Distilling silence, — lo. 
That which our father-age had died to 
know — 
The menstruum that dissolves all 
matter — thou 
Hast found it; for this silence, filling now 
The globed charity of receiving space. 
This solves us all: man, matter, doubt, dis- 
grace. 
Death, love, sin, sanity, 
Must in yon silence, clear solution lie, — 
Too clear ! That crystal nothing who '11 
peruse ? 



SIDNEY LANIER 



439 



The blackest night could bring us brighter 

news. 
Yet precious qualities of silence haunt 
Round these vast margins, ministrant. 
Oh, if thy soul 's at latter gasp for space, 
With trying to breathe no bigger than thy 

race 
Just to be fellowed, when that thou hast 

found 
No man with room, or grace enough of 

bound, 
To entertain that New thou tellst, thou 

art, — 
'T is here, 't is here, thou canst unhand 

thy heart 
And breathe it free, and breathe it free, 
By rangy marsh, in lone sea-liberty. 

The tide 's at full; the marsh with flooded 

streams 
Glimmers, a limpid labyrinth of dreams. 
Each winding creek in grave entraneement 

lies 
A rhapsody of morniug-stars. The skies 
Shine scant with one forked galaxy, — 
The marsh brags ten: looped on his breast 

they lie. 

Oh, what if a sound should be made ! 

Oh, what if a bound should be laid 

To this bow-aud-string tension of beauty 

and silence a-spring, — 
To the bend of beauty the bow, or the hold 

of silence the string ! 
I fear me, I fear me yon dome of diapha- 
nous gleam 
Will break as a bubble o'er-blown in a 

dream, — 
Yon dome of too-tenuous tissues of space 

and of night, 
Over-weighted with stars, over-freighted 

with light, 
Over-sated with beauty and silence, will 

seem 
But a bubble that broke in a dream. 
If a bound of degree to this grace be laid, 
Or a sound or a motion made. 

But no: it is made: list! somewhere, — 

mystery, where ? 

In the leaves ? in the air ? 
In my heart ? is a motion made : 
'T is a motion of dawn, like a flicker of 

shade on shade. 



In the leaves 'tis palpable: low multitudi- 
nous stirring 

Upwinds through the woods; the little ones, 
softly conferring. 

Have settled my lord's to be looked for; 
so, they are still; 

But the air and my heart and the earth are 
a-thrill, — 

And look where the wild duck sails round 
the bend of the river, — 
And look where a passionate shiver 
Expectant is bending the blades 

Of the marsh-grass in serial shimmers and 
shades, — 

And invisible wings, fast fleeting, fast 
fleeting. 

Are beating 

The dark overhead as my heart beats, — ■ 
and steady and free 

Is the ebb-tide flowing from marsh to sea — 
(Run home, little streams. 
With your lapfuls of stars and 
dreams), — 

And a sailor unseen is hoisting a-peak, 

For list, down the inshore curve of the 
creek 
How merrily flutters the sail, — 

And lo, in the East ! Will the East un- 
veil ? 

The East is unveiled, the East hath con- 
fessed 

A flush : 't is dead ; 't is alive : 't is dead, ere 
the West 

Was aware of it : nay, 't is abiding, 't is un- 
withdrawn : 
Have a care, sweet Heaven ! ' T is 
Dawn. 

Now a dream of a flame through that 
dream of a flush is uprolled: 
To the zenith ascending, a dome of 
undazzling gold 
Is builded, in shape as a bee-hi7e, from 

out of the sea: 
The hive is of gold undazzling, but oh, the 
Bee, 
The star-fed Bee, the build-fire Bee, 
Of dazzling gold is the great Sui-Bee 
That shall flash from the hive-hole over 
the sea. 

Yet now the dewdrop, now the morn* 

iug gray. 
Shall live their little lucid sober day 



440 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Ere with the sun their souls exhale 

away. 
Now in each pettiest personal sphere of dew 
The summed moon shines complete as in 

the blue 
Big dewdrop of all heaven: with these lit 

shrines 
O'ersilvered to the farthest sea-confines, 
The sacramental marsh one pious plain 
Of worship lies. Peace to the ante-reign 
Of Mary Morning, blissful mother mild, 
Minded of nought but peace, and of a child, 

Not slower than Majesty moves, for a mean 

and a measure . 
Of motion, — not faster than dateless 

Olympian leisure 
Might pace with unblown ample garments 

from pleasure to pleasure, — 
The wave-serrate sea-rim sinks un jarring, 

unreeling, 
Forever revealing, revealing, revealing, 
Edgewise, bladewise, halfwise, wholewise, 

— 't is done ! 

Good-morrow, Lord Sun ! 
With several voice, with ascription one. 
The woods and the marsh and the sea and 

my soul 
Unto thee, whence the glittering stream of 

all morrows doth roll, 
Cry good and past good and most heav- 
enly morrow. Lord Sun. 

O Artisan born in the purple, — Workman 

Heat, — 
Parter of passionate atoms that travail to 

meet 
And be mixed in the death-cold oneness, — 

innermost Guest 
At the marriage of elements, — fellow of 

publicans, — blest 
King in the blouse of flame, that loiterest 

o'er 
The idle skies yet laborest past evermore, — 
Thou, in the fine forge-thunder, thou, 

in the beat 
Of the heart of a man, thou Motive, — 

Laborer Heat: 
Yea, Artist, thou, of whose art yon sea 's 

all news, 
With his inshore greens and manifold mid- 
sea blues, 



Pearl-glint, shell-tint, ancientest, perf ectest 

hues 
Ever shaming the maidens, — lily and rose 
Confess thee, and each mild flame that 

glows 
In the clarified virginal bosoms of stones 

that shine, 

It is thine, it is thine: 

Thou chemist of storms, whether driving 

the winds a-swirl 
Or a-flicker the subtiler essences polar that 

whirl 
In the magnet earth, — yea, thou with a 

storm for a heart. 
Rent with debate, many-spotted with ques- 
tion, part 
From part oft sundered, yet ever a globed 

light. 
Yet ever the artist, ever more large and 

bright 
Than the eye of a man may avail of: — 

manifold One, 
I must pass from the face, I must pass 

from the face of the Sun: 
Old Want is awake and agog, every wrinkle 

a-f rown ; 
The worker must pass to his work in the 

terrible town: 
But I fear not, nay, and I fear not the 

thing to be done; 
I am strong with the strength of my 

lord the Sun: 
How dark, how dark soever the race that 

must needs be run, 

I am lit with the Sun. 

Oh, never the mast-high run of the seas 

Of traffic shall hide thee, 
Never the hell-colored smoke of the facto- 
ries 

Hide thee. 
Never the reek of the time's feu-politics 

Hide thee. 
And ever my heart through the night shall 

with knowledge abide thee. 
And ever by day shall my spirit, as one 

that hath tried thee. 
Labor, at leisure, in art, — till yonder be- 
side thee 
My soul shall float, friend Sun, 
The day being done. 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD— DIVISION I 



441 



Sr^ap i!lilfp M>\mtfy 



MY UNINVITED GUEST 

One dsy there entered at my chamber 

door 
A presence whose light footfall on the floor 
No token gave ; and, ere I could withstand, 
Within her clasp she drew my trembling 

hand. 
1 

" Intrusive guest," I cried, " my palm I 

lend 
But to the gracious pressure of a friend ! 
Why conest thou, unbidden and in gloom. 
Trailing^ thy cold gray garments in my 

room ? 

" I know .hee. Pain ! Thou art the sullen 

foe 
Of every sweet enjoyment here below; 
Thou art the comrade and ally of Death, 
And timid mortals shrink from thy cold 

breath, 
t 

" No fragrant balms grow in thy garden 
beds. 

Nor slumbrous poppies droop their crim- 
son heads; 

And well I know thou comest to me now 

To bind thy burning chains upon my 
biow ! " 

And though my puny will stood straightly 

up. 
From that day forth I drank her pungent 

cup. 
And ate her bitter bread, — with leaves 

of rue. 
Which in her sunless gardens rankly grew. 

And now, so long it is, I scarce can tell 
When Pain within my chamber came to 

dwell; 
And though she is not fair of mien or face, 
She hath attracted to my humble place 

A company most gracious and refined, 
Whose touches are like balm, whose voices 
kind; 



Sweet Sympathy, with box of ointment rare ; 
Courage, who sings while she sits weaving 
there ; 

Brave Patience, whom my heart esteemeth 

much. 
And who hath wondrous virtue in her touch. 
Such is the chaste and sweet society 
Which Pain, my faithful foe, hath brought 

to me. 

And now upon my threshold there she 

stands, 
Reaching to me her rough yet kindly hands 
In silent truce. Thus for a time we part, 
And a great gladness overflows my heart; 

For she is so ungentle in her way 

That no host welcomes her or bids her 

stay; 
Yet, though men bolt and bar their house 

from thee. 
To every door, O Pain, thou hast a key ! 



DEPARTURE 

Adieu, kind Life, though thou hast often 

been 
Lavish of quip, and scant of courtesy, 
Beneath thy roughness I have found in thee 
A host who doth my parting favor win. 
Friend, teacher, sage, and sometimes harle- 
quin, 
Thine every mood hath held some good 

for me, — 
Nor ever friendlier seemed thy company 
Than on this night when I must quit thine 

inn. 
I love thee. Life, in spite of thy rude ways ! 
Dear is thy pleasant house, so long my 

home. 
I thank thee for the hospitable days, 
The friends, the rugged cheer. Then, 

landlord, come ! 
Pour me a stirrup cup, — our parting nears ; 
I ever liked thy wine, though salt with 

tears. 



442 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



^cnrp %hbep 



DONALD 



O WHITE, white, light moon, that sailest in 

the sky, 
Look down upon the whirling world, for 

thou art up so high, 
And tell me where my Donald is who sailed 

across the sea, 
And make a path of silver light to lead 

him back to me. 

O white, white, bright moon, thy cheek is 
coldly fair; 

A little cloud beside thee seems thy wildly 
floating hair; 

And if thou would st not have me wan, and 
pale, and cold like thee. 

Go, make a mighty tide to draw my Don- 
ald back to me. 

light, white, bright moon, that dost so 

fondly shine. 
There is not a lily in the world but hides 
its face from thine: 

1 too shall go and hide my face close in 

the dust from thee. 
Unless with light and tide thou bring my 
Donald back to me. 

WINTER DAYS 

Now comes the graybeard of the north: 
The forests bare their rugged breasts 

To every wind that wanders forth. 
And, in their arms, the lonely nests 

That housed the birdlings months ago 

Are egged with flakes of drifted snow. 

No more the robin pipes his lay 

To greet the flushed advance of morn ; 
He sings in valleys far away; 
His heart is with the south to-day; 

He cannot shrill among the corn: 
For all the hay and corn are down 

And garnered; and the withered leaf. 
Against the branches bare and brown. 

Rattles; and all the days are brief. 

An icy hand is on the land ; 

The cloudy sky is sad and gray; 
But through the misty sorrow streams. 

Outspreading wide, a golden ray. 



And on the brook that cuts the p]ai;i 
A diamond wonder is aglow. 
Fairer than that which, long ag0|, 

De Rohan staked a name to gain. 



IN MEMORY OF GENERAL 
GRANT 

White wings of commerce sailing far. 

Hot steam that drives the weltering 
wheel, 
Tamed lightning speeding on the Avire, 

Iron postman on the way of steel, — 
These, circling all the world, have told 

The loss that makes us desolate ; 
For we give back to dust this day 

The God-sent man who saved toe state. 

When black the sky and dire with war. 

When every heart was wrung with fear, 
He rose serene, and took his plaiie. 

The great occasion's mighty peer. 
He smote armed opposition dowii'. 

He bade the storm and darknet s cease, 
And o'er the long-distracted land 

Shone out the smiling sun of peace. 

The famous captains of the past 

March in review before the mind: 
Some fought for glory, some for gold, 

But most to yoke and rule mankind. 
Not so the captain dead to-day. 

For whom our half-mast banners wave: 
He fought to keep the Union whole, 

And break the shackles of the slave. 

A silent man, in friendship true. 

He made point-blank his certain aim, 
And, born a stranger to defeat, 

To steadfast purpose linked his name: 
For while the angry flood of war 

Surged down between its gloomy banks. 
He followed duty, with the mien 

Of but a soldier in the ranks. 

How well he wore white honor's flower, 
The gratitude and praise of men, 

As General, as President, 
And then as simple citizen ! 

He was a hero to the end: 
The dark rebellion raised by Death 



HENRY ABBEY — AMBROSE BIERCE 



443 



Againfr the Powers of Life and Light, 
He kittled hard, with failing breath. 
,t 
O herapf Fort Donelsou, 

And ;ooded Shiloh's frightful strife ! 
Sleep on ! for honor loves the tomb 
More than the garish ways of life. 
Sleep or ! sleep on ! Thy wondrous life 

Is frejdom's most illustrious page; 
And fane shall loudly sound thy praise 
In evffy dime, to every age. 
/I 
'' FAITH'S VISTA 

When f jom the vaulted wonder of the sky 
The curtiin of the light is drawn aside, 
And I beiold the stars in all their wide 
Significaice and glorious mystery, 



Assured that those more distant orbs are 

suns 
Round which innumerable worlds re- 
volve, — 
My faith grows strong, my day-born doubts 

dissolve. 
And death, that dread annulment which 

life shuns, 
Or fain would shun, becomes to life the 

way. 
The thoroughfare to greater worlds on 

high. 
The bridge from star to star. Seek how 

we may. 
There is no other road across the sky; 
And, looking up, I hear star- voices say: 
" You could not reach us if you did not 

die." 



^CmlJiro^e 23icrce 



THE DEATH OF GRANT 

Father ! )vhose hard and cruel law 
Is par; of thy compassion's plan. 
Thy Tvorks presumptuously we scan 

For what the prophets say they saw. 

Unbidden still, the awful slope 

Walling us in, we climb to gain 
Assvrance of the shining plain 

That faith has certified to hope. 

In vain: beyond the circling hill 

The shadow and the cloud abide ; 
Subdue the doubt, our spirits guide 

To trust the Record and be still; 

To trust it loyally as he 

Who, heedful of his high design, 
Ne'er raised a seeking eye to thine, 

But wrought thy will unconsciously, 

Disputing not of chance or fate, 

Nor questioning of cause or creed: 
For anything but duty's deed 

Too simply wise, too humbly great. 

The cannon syllabled his name; 

His shadow shifted o'er the land, 
Portentous, as at his command 

Successive cities sprang to flame I 



He fringed the continent with fire. 
The rivers ran in lines of light ! 
Thy will be done on earth — if right 

Or wrong he cared not to inquire. 

His was the heavy hand, and his 

The service of the despot blade; 
His the soft answer that allayed 

War's giant animosities. 

Let us have peace: our clouded eyes 
Fill, Father, with another light, 
That we may see with clearer sight 

Thy servant's soul in Paradise. 



THE BRIDE 

" You know, my friends, with what a brave 

carouse 
I made a second marriage in my house, — 
Divorced old barren Reason from my 

bed 
And took the Daughter of the Vine to 

spouse." 

So sang the Lord of Poets. In a gleam 
Of light that made her like an angel seem, 
The Daughter of the Vine said: "I my- 
self 
Am Reason, and the Other was a Dream." 



444 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



ANOTHER WAY 

I LAY in silence, dead. A woman came 
And laid a rose upon my breast, and 
said, 
" May God be merciful." She spoke my 
name, 
And added, " It is strange to think him 
dead. 

" He loved me well enough, but 't was his 
way 
To speak it lightly." Then, beneath 
her breath: 
" Besides " — I knew what further she 
would say. 
But then a footfall broke my dream 
of death. 

To-day the words are mine. I lay the rose 

Upon her breast, and speak her name, 

and deem 

It strange indeed that she is dead. God 

knows 

I had more pleasure in the other dream. 

MONTEFIORE 

I SAW — 't was in a dream, the other 

night — 
A man whose hair with age was thin and 

white ; 
One hundred years had bettered by his 

birth, 
And still his step was firm, his eye was 

bright. 

Before him and-about him pressed a crowd. 
Each head in reverence was bared and 

bowed. 
And Jews and Gentiles in a hundred 

tongues 
Extolled his deeds and spake his fame 

aloud. 

I joined the throng and, pushing forward, 

cried, 
" Montefiore ! " with the rest, and vied 

In efforts to caress the hand that ne'er 
To want and worth had charity denied. 

So closely round him swarmed our shouting 

clan 
He scarce could breathe, and, taking from 

a pan 



A gleaming coin, he tossed it o' er our 
heads, 
And in a moment was a lonely man ! 

PRESENTIMENT >^ 

With saintly grace and reverent t: read 

She walked among the grav es with 

me; ■ ..; 

Her every footfall seemed to 1 je 

A benediction on the dead. 

The guardian spirit of the place n 

She seemed, and I some g^host for- 
lorn, ( 
Surprised by the untimely mci)rn 

She made with her resplendent fac^e. 

Moved by some waywardness of v vill. 
Three paces from the path a/part 
She stepped and stood — mj/ prescient 
heart ] 

Was stricken with a passing chin. 

My child-lore of the years agonQ 

Remembering, I smiled and thought, 
" Who shudders suddenly at naught, 

His grave is being trod upon." 

But now I know that it was more 
Than idle fancy. O, my swecjt, 
I did not know such little fee't 

Could make a buried heart so sore> ! 



CREATION 

God dreamed — the suns sprang flaming 

into place, 
And sailing worlds with many a venturous 

race. 
He woke — His smile alone illumined 

space. 

T. A. H. 

Yes, he was that, or that, as you prefer, — 
Did so and so, though, faith, it was n't all; 
Lived like a fool, or a philosopher. 
And had whatever 's needful to a fall. 
As rough inflections on a planet merge 
In the true bend of the gigantic sphere. 
Nor mar the perfect circle of its verge, 
So in the survey of his worth the small 



AMBROSE BIERCE— CHARLES WARREN STODDARD 445 



Aspefties of spirit disappear, 
Lost it the grander curves of character. 
He lately was hit hard; none knew but I 
The strength and terror of that ghastly 

stroke, — 
Not ev^n herself. He uttered not a cry. 
But se; his teeth and made a revelry; 
Drank like a devil, — staining sometimes 

red 
The foblet's edge; diced with his con- 
science; spread, 
Like Ssyphus, a feast for Death, and spoke 
His wacome in a tongue so long forgot 



That even his ancient guest remembered 

not 
What race had cursed him in it. Thus 

my friend. 
Still conjugating with each failing sense 
The verb " to die " in every mood and 

tense, 
Pursued his awful humor to the end. 
When, like a stormy dawn, the crimson 

broke 
From his white lips, he smiled and mutely 

bled, 
And, having meanly lived, is grandly dead. 



Cgadc^ ISarren ^totibarti 



THE ROYAL MUMMY TO BO- 
HEMIA 1 

Wheretore these revels that my dull eyes 

gieet ? 
These dincers, dancing at my fleshless 

fe«t; 
The harpers, harping vainly at my ears 
Deaf to the world, lo, thrice a thousand 

years ! 

Time was when even I was blithe: I knew 
The murmur of the flowing wave, where 

grew 
The lean, lithe rushes; I have heard the 

moan 
Of Nilus in prophetic undertone. 

My sire was monarch of a mighty race: 
Daughter of Pharaoh, I ! before my face 
Myriads of groveling creatures crawled, to 

thrust 
Their fearful foreheads in the desert dust. 

Above me gleamed and glowed my palace 

walls : 
There bloomed my bowers; and there, my 

waterfalls 
Lulled me in languors; slaves with feather 

flails 
Fretted the tranquil air to gentle gales, 

O, my proud palms ! my royal palms that 

stood 
In stately groups, a queenly sisterhood ! 
And O, my sphinxes, gazing eye in eye, 
Down the dim vistas of eternity ! 



Where be ye now ? And where am I at 

last? 
With gay Bohemia is my portion cast: 
Born of the oldest East, I seek my rest 
In the fair city of the youngest West. 

Farewell, O Egypt ! Naught can thee 

avail : 
What tarries now to tell thy sorry tale ? 
A sunken temple that the sands have hid ' 
The tapering shadow of a pyramid ! 

And now, my children, harbor me not 

ill: 
I was a princess, am a woman still. 
Gibe me no gibes, but greet me at your 

best. 
As I was wont to greet the stranger guest. 

Feast well, drink well, make merry while 

ye may. 
For e'en the best of you must pass my 

way. 
The elder as the youngster, fair to see. 
Must gird his marble loins and follow me. 
Bohemian Club, San Francisco. 



WIND AND WAVE 

O, WHEN I hear at sea 
The water on our lee, 
I fancy that I hear the wind 

That combs my hemlock tree: 

But when beneath that tree 
I listen eagerly, 



1 See BiooBAPHicAii Note, p. 823. 



446 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



I seem to hear the rushing wave 
I heard far out at sea. 



ALBATROSS 

Time cannot age thy sinews, nor the gale 
Batter the network of thy feathered mail, 

Lone sentry of the deep ! 
Among the crashing caverns of the storm, 
With wing unfettered, lo ! thy frigid form 

Is whirled in dreamless sleep ! 

Where shall thy wing find rest for all its 

might ? 
Where shall thy lidless eye, that scours 
the night, 
Grow blank in utter death ? 
When shall thy thousand years have 

stripped thee bare. 
Invulnerable spirit of the air. 

And sealed thy giant-breath ? 

Not till thy bosom hugs the icy wave, — 
Not till thy palsied limbs sink in that 
grave, 
Caught by the shrieking blast, 
And hurled upon the sea with broad wings 

locked, 
On an eternity of waters rocked, 
Defiant to the last ! 



THE COCOA-TREE 

Cast on the water by a careless ham i. 
Day after day the winds persuadet.d me: 
Onward I drifted till a coral tree 
Stayed me among its branches, whe jre the 
sand ' 

Gathered about me, and I slowly gtjrew, 
Fed by the constant sun and the incon- 
stant dew. 

The sea-birds build their nests agarnst my 
root, 
And eye my slender body's horny case. 
Widowed within this solitary plaiue 
Into the thankless sta I cast ray fruit; 
Joyless I thrive, for no man n^iay par- 
take , 
Of all the store I bear and harvest for 
his sake. , 

No more I heed the kisses of the ^norn; 

The harsh winds rob me of the; life they 
gave; _ [ 

I watch my tattered shadow in the wave. 
And hourly droop and nod my. crest for- 
lorn. 

While all my fibres stiffen apd grow 
numb 

Beckoning the tardy ships, the sKips that 
never come ! 



f ranciiS fi0f\tt 25rotDnc 



VANQUISHED 



Not by the ball or brand 
Sped by a mortal hand, 
Not by the lightning stroke 
When fiery tempests broke, — 
Not mid the ranks of War 
Fell the great Conqueror. 



Unmoved, undismayed. 

In the crash and carnage of the can- 
nonade, — 

Eye that dimmed not, hand that failed 
not, 

Brain that swerved not, heart that quailed 
not, 



Steel nerve, iron form, — 
The dauntless spirit that o'erruled the 
storm. 

Ill 

While the Hero peaceful slept 
A foeman to his chamber crept, 
Lightly to the slumberer came, 
Touched his brow and breathed his name: 
O'er the stricken form there passed 
Suddenly an icy blast. 

IV 

The Hero woke, rose undismayed. 
Saluted Death, and sheathed his blade. 



The Conqueror of a hundred fields 
To a mightier Conqueror yields; 



FRANCIS FISHER BROWNE — MARY AINGE DE VERE 447 



No mortal foeman's blow 
Laid the great Soldier low: 
Victor in his latest breath — 
Vanquished but by Death. 

UNDER THE BLUE 

The skies are low, the winds are slow, 
The woods are filled with autumn glory; 

The mists are still on field and hill. 
The brooklet sings its dreamy story. 

I careless rove through glen and grove; 

I dream by hill and copse and river; 
Or in the shade by aspen made 

I watch the restless shadows quiver. 

I lift my eyes to azure skies 

That shed their tinted glory o'er me; 
While memories sweet around me fleet. 

As radiant as the scene before me. 

For while I muse upon the hues 
Of autumn skies in splendor given, 

Sweet thoughts arise of rare deep eyes 
Whose blue is like the blue of heaven. 

Bend low, fair skies ! Smile sweet, fair 
eyes ! 
From radiant skies rich hues are stream- 
ing; 



But in the blue of pure eyes true 
The radiance of my life is beaming. 

O skies of blue ! ye fade from view; 

Faint grow the hues that o'er me quiver; 
But the sure light of sweet eyes bright 

Shines on forever and forever. 

SANTA BARBARA 

Between the mountains and the sea. 
Walled by the rock, fringed by the 
foam, 

A valley stretches fair and free 
Beneath the blue of heaven's dome. 

At rest in that fair valley lies 

Saint Barbara, the beauteous maid; 

Above her head the cloudless skies 

Smile down upon her charms displayed. 

The sunlit mountains o'er her shed 
The splendor of their purple tinge ; 

While round her like a mantle spread 
The blue seas with their silver fringe. 

Enfolded in that soothing calm. 

The earth seems sweet, and heaven 
near; 
The flowers bloom free, the air is balm, 

And summer rules the radiant year. 



0^arp %mQe 2Dc ,Fere 



("MADELINE BRIDGES") 

THE WIND-SWEPT WHEAT 



Faint, faint and clear. 

Faint as the music that in dreams we hear 

Shaking the curtain-fold of sleep. 

That shuts away 

The world's hoarse voice, the sights and 

sounds of day, 
Her sorry joys, her phantoms false and 

fleet, — 
So softly, softly stirs 
The wind's low murmur in the rippled 

wheat. 

From west to east 

The warm breath blows, the slender heads 
droop low 



As if in prayer; 

Again, more lightly tossed in merry 

play, 
They bend and bow and sway 
With measured beat. 
But never rest, — through shadow and 

through sun 
Goes on the tender rustle of the wheat. 

Dreams more than sleep 

Fall on the listening heart and lull its 

care ; 
Dead years send back 
Some treasured, unforgotten tune. 
Ah, long ago, 

When sun and sky were sweet, 
In happy noon, 



448 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



We stood breast-high, mid waves of ripened 


It might be easy then to keep God's word, 


grain, 


His praise to sing; 


And heard the wind make music in the 


Easy to live content. 


wheat. 


Tending my little ones, — of love se- 


Not for to-day — 


cure, 
Knowing no agony for time misspent, 


Not for this hour alone — the melody 


Or thought impure ! 


So soft and ceaseless thrills the dreamer's 




ear: 


Were I a butterfly. 


Of all that was and is, of all that yet shall 


A bright-winged creature of the sun- 


be, 


shine born. 


It holds a part. 


Idle and lovely I could live and die 


Love, sorrow, longing, pain, 


Without self-scorn; 


The restlessness that yearns, 


I need not fear 


The thirst that burns. 


To take my utmost will of summer 


The bliss that like a fountain overflows, 


sweet; 


The deep repose. 


Nor dread, when the swift end came near, 


Good that we might have known, but shall 


My Judge to meet ! 


not know. 




The hope God took, the joy He made com- 


If I were only made 


plete, — 


Patient, and calm, and pure, as angels 


Life's chords all answer from the wind- 


are. 


swept wheat ! 


I had not been so doubtful, — sore afraid 




Of sin and care; 




It would seem sweet and good 


A FAREWELL 


To bear the heavy cross that martyrs 




take. 


I PUT thy hand aside, and turn away: 


The passion and the pain of womanhood 


Why should I blame the slight and fickle 


For my Lord's sake. 


heart 




That cannot bravely go, nor boldly stay. 


But strong, and fair, and young. 


Too weak to cling, and yet too fond to 


I dread my glowing limbs, — my heart 


part ? 


of fire. 


Dead Passion chains thee where her ashes 


My soul that trembles like a harp full 


lie. 


strung 


Cold is the shrine, ah, cold for evermore ! 


To keen desire ! 


Why linger, then, while golden moments 


0, wild and idle words ! 


% . 


Will God's large charity and patience 


And sunshine waits beyond the open door ? 


be 


Nay — fare thee well, for memory and I 


Given unto butterflies and singing birds. 


Must tarry here and wait. . . • We have 


And not to me ? 


no choice 




Nor other better joy, until we die, 




Only to wait, and hear nor step nor 


THE SPINNER 


voice. 
Nor any happy advent come to break 


The spinner twisted her slender thread 


The watch we keep alone — for Love's 


As she sat and spun: 


dear sake ! 


" The earth and the heavens are mine," 




she said. 




" And the moon and sun; 


FAITH TREMBLING 


Into my web the sunlight goes, 




And the breath of May, 


Were I a happy bird. 


And the crimson life of the new-blown 


Building my little nest each early 


rose 


spring. 


That was born to-day." 



MARY AINGE DE VERE 



449 



The spinner sang in the hush of noon 

And her song was low: 

" Ah, morning, you pass away too soon, 

You are swift to go. 

My heart o'erflows like a brimming cup 

With its hopes and fears. 

Love, come and drink the sweetness up 

Ere it turn to tears." 

The spinner looked at the falling sun: 

•' Is it time to rest ? 

My hands are weary, — my work is done, 

I have wrought my best; 

I have spun and woven with patient eyes 

And with fingers fleet. 

Lo ! where the toil of a lifetime lies 

In a winding-sheet ! " 



WHEN THE MOST IS SAID 

What 's love, when the most is said ? 

The flash of the lightning fleet, 
Then, darkness that shrouds the soul, — 

but the earth is firm to my feet; 
The rocks and the tides endure, the grasses 

and herbs return. 
The path to my foot is sure, and the sods 

to my bosom yearn. 

What 's fame, when the truth is told ? A 
shout to a distant hill. 

The craigs may echo a while, but fainter, 
and fainter still; 

Yet forever the wind blows wide the sweet- 
ness of all the skies. 

The rain cries and the snow flies, and the 
storm in its bosom lies. 

What 's life, what 's life, little heart ? A 

dream when the nights are long, 
Toil in the waking days, — tears, and a 

kiss, a song. 
What 's life, what 's life, little heart ? To 

beat and be glad of breath 
While death waits on either side, — before 

and behind us. Death ! 



POET AND LARK 

When leaves turn outward to the light. 
And all the roads are fringed with green, 



When larks are pouring, high, unseen, 
The joy they find in song and flight. 
Then I, too, with the lark would wing 
My little flight, and, soaring, sing. 

When larks drop downward to the nest, 
And day drops downward to the sea, 

And song and wing are fain to rest. 
The lark's dear wisdom guideth me. 

And I too turn within my door. 

Content to dream, and sing no more. 



A BREATH 

A BREATH can fan love's flame to burn- 

ing» — 
Make firm resolve of trembling doubt. 
But, strange ! at fickle fancy's turning, 
The selfsame breath can blow it out. 



FRIEND AND LOVER 

When Psyche's friend becomes her lover. 
How sweetly these conditions blend ! 

But, oh, what anguish to discover 
Her lover has become — her friend ! 



GOD KEEP YOU 

God keep you, dearest, all this lonely night: 
The winds are still, 

The moon drops down behind the western 
hUl; 
God keep you safely, dearest, till the 
light. 

God keep you then when slumber melts 
away. 
And care and strife 

Take up new arms to fret our waking 
life, 
God keep you through the battle of the 
day. 

God keep you. Nay, beloved soul, how 
vain, 
How poor is prayer ! 
I can but say again, and yet again, 

God keep you every time and every- 
where. 



450 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



(VARIOUS POEMS BELONGING TO THIS DIVISION) 



I 



THE THANKSGIVING IN BOSTON 
HARBOR 

" Praise ye the Lord ! " The psalm to-day 

Still rises on our ears, 
Borne from the hills of Boston Bay 

Through five times fifty years, 
When Winthrop's fleet from Yarmouth 
erept 
Out to the open main, 
And through the widening waters swept. 
In April sun and rain. 

" Pray to the Lord with fervent lips," 

The leader shouted, " pray; " 
And prayer arose from all the ships 
As faded Yarmouth Bay. 

They passed the Scilly Isles that day. 

And May-days came, and June, 
And thrice upon the ocean lay 

The full orb of the moon. 
And as that day, on Yarmouth Bay, 

Ere England sunk from, view, 
While yet the rippling Solent lay 
In April skies of blue, 

" Pray to the Lord with fervent lips," 

Each morn was shouted, "pray; " 
And prayer arose from all the ships. 
As first in Yarmouth Bay; 

Blew warm the breeze o'er Western seas. 

Through Maytime morns, and June, 
Till hailed these souls the Isles of Shoals, 

Low 'neath the summer moon; 
And as Cape Ann arose to view. 

And Norman's Woe they passed. 
The wood-doves came the white mists 
through, 
And circled round each mast. 

" Pray to the Lord with fervent lips," 

Then called the leader, *' pray; " 
And prayer arose from all the ships. 
As first in Yarmouth Bay. 

Above the sea the hill-tops fair — 

God's towers — began to rise, 
And odors rare breathe through the air. 

Like balms of Paradise. 



Through burning skies the ospreys flew, 

And near the pine-cooled shores 
Danced airy boat and thin canoe, 
To flash of sunlit oars. 

" Pray to the Lord with fervent lips," 

The leader shouted, " pray ! " 
Then prayer arose, and all the ships 
Sailed into Boston Bay. 

The white wings folded, anchors down. 

The sea-worn fleet in line. 
Fair rose the hills where Boston town 

Should rise from clouds of pine ; 
Fair was the harbor, summit-walled, 

And placid lay the sea. 
"Praise ye the Lord," the leader called; 
" Praise ye the Lord," spake he. 

"Give thanks to God with fervent 
lips. 
Give thanks to God to-day," 
The anthem rose from all the ships, 
Safe moored in Boston Bay. 

" Praise ye the Lord ! " Primeval woods 

First heard the ancient song, 
And summer hills and solitudes 

The echoes rolled along. 
The Red Cross flag of England blew 

Above the fleet that day. 
While Shawmut's triple peaks in view 
In amber hazes lay. 

" Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips, 

Praise ye the Lord to-day," 
The anthem rose from all the ships 
Safe moored in Boston Bay. 

The Arabella leads the song — 
The Mayflower sings below, 
That erst the Pilgrims bore along 

The Plymouth reefs of snow. 
Oh ! never be that psalm forgot 

That rose o'er Boston Bay, 
When Winthrop sang, and Endicott, 
And Saltonstall, that day: 

" Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips, 

Praise je the Lord to-day; " 
And praise arose from all the ships. 
Like prayers in Yarmouth Bay. 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



451 



That psalm our fathers sang we sing, 

That psalm of peace and wars, 
While o'er our heads unfolds its wing 

The flag of forty stars. 
And while the nation finds a tongue 

For nobler gifts to pray, 
'T will ever sing the song they sung 
That first Thanksgiving Day: 

" Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips, 

Praise ye the Lord to-day; " 
So rose the song from all the ships, 
Safe moored in Boston Bay. 

Our fathers' prayers have changed to 
psalms, 
As David's treasures old 
Turned, on the Temple's giant arms, 

To lily-work of gold. 
Ho ! vanished ships from Yarmouth's tide, 

Ho ! ships of Boston Bay, 
Your prayers have crossed the centuries 
wide 
To this Thanksgiving Day ! 

We pray to God with fervent lips, 

We praise the Lord to-day. 
As prayers arose from Yarmouth ships. 
But psalms from Boston Bay. 

Hezekiah Butterworth 



CARMEN BELLICOSUM 

In their ragged regimentals, 
Stood the old Continentals, 

Yielding not, 
While the grenadiers were lunging. 
And like hail fell the plunging 
Cannon-shot; 
When the files 
Of the isles. 
From the smoky night-encampment, bore 
the banner of the rampant 
Unicorn; 
And grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled 
the roll of the drummer 
Through the morn ! 



Then with eyes to the front all, 
And with guns horizontal. 

Stood our sires; 
While the balls whistled deadly. 
And in streams flashing redly 

Blazed the fires: 

As the roar 

On the shore 



Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the 
green-sodded acres 
Of the plain; 
And louder, louder, louder, cracked the 
black gunpowder, 
Cracking amain ! 

Now like smiths at their forges 
Worked the red St. George's 

Cannoneers, 
And the villainous saltpetre 
Rang a fierce, discordant metre 
Round our ears: 
As the swift 
Storm-drift, 
With hot sweeping anger, came the horse- 
guards' clangor 
On our flanks. 
Then higher, higher, higher, burned the 
old-fashioned fire 
Through the ranks ! 

Then the bare-headed Colonel 
Galloped through the white infernal 

Powder-cloud; 
And his broadsword was swinging. 
And his brazen throat was ringing 
Trumpet-loud; 
Then the blue 
Bullets flew, 
And the trooper- jackets redden at the 
touch of the leaden 
Rifle-breath ; 
And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the 
iron six-pounder. 
Hurling death ! 

Guy Humphreys McMasterI 



AT MARSHFIELD 

FROM "WEBSTER: AN ODE " 

His way in farming all men knew; 
Way wide, forecasting, free, 
A liberal tilth that made the tiller 
poor. 
That huge Websterian plough what fur- 
rows drew 
Through fallows fattened from the bar- 
ren sea ! 
Yoked to that plough and matched for 
mighty size, 
What oxen moved ! — in progress equal, 
sure. 
Unconscious of resistance, as of force 
See BioGHAPHicAL Note, p. 809. 



452 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Not finite, elemental, like his own, 

Taking its way with unimpeded course. 
He loved to look into their meek brown 
eyes, 
That with a light of love half human 
shone 
Calmly on him from out the ample 
front, 
While, with a kind of mutual, wise, 
Mute recognition of some kin, 
Superior to surprise. 

And schooled by immemorial wont, 
They seemed to say, We let him in. 
He is of us, he is, by natural dower. 
One in our brotherhood of great and peace- 
ful power. 

So, when he came to die 

At Marshfield by the sea, 
And now the end is nigh, 
Up from the pleasant lea 
Move his dumb friends in solemn, slow, 
Funereal procession, and before 
Their master's door 
In melancholy file compassionately go; 
He will be glad to see his trusty friends 
once more. 
Now let him look a look that shall suffice, 
Lo, let the dying man 
Take all the peace he can 
Fromi those large tranquil brows and deep 
soft eyes. 
Rest it will be to him, 
Before his eyes grow dim. 
To bathe his aged eyes in one deep gaze 
Commingled with old days. 
On faces of such friends sincere, 
With fondness brought from boyhood, dear. 

Farewell, a long look and the last. 
And these have turned and passed. 

Henceforth he will no more, 

As was his wont before. 

Step forth from yonder door 
To taste the freshness of the early dawn, 

The whiteness of the sky, 

The whitening stars on high, 

The dews yet white that lie 
Far spread in pearl upon the glimmering 
lawn; 

Never at evening go, 

Sole pacing to and fro, 

With musing step and slow. 
Beneath the cope of heaven set thick with 
stars, 



Considering by whose hand 
Those works, in wisdom planned, 
Were fashioned, and still stand 
Serenely fast and fair above these earthly 
jars. 
Never again. Forth he will soon be 
brought 
By neighbors that have loved him, having 
known. 
Plain farmers, with the farmer's natural 
thought 
And feeling, sympathetic to his own. 

All in a temperate air, a golden light, 
Rich with October, sad with afternoon, 
Fitly let him be laid, with rustic rite, 
To rest amid the ripened harvest boon. 
He loved the ocean's mighty murmur deep, 
And this shall lull him through his dream- 
less sleep. 
But those plain men will speak above his 

head. 
This is a lonesome world, and Webster 
dead ! 

William Cleaver Wilkinson 



THE COWBOY 

" What care I, what cares he. 

What cares the world of the life we 

know ? 
Little they reck of the shadowless plains, 
The shelterless mesa, the sun and the rains, 
The wild, free life, as the winds that blow." 
With his broad sombrero, 
His worn chapparejos. 
And clinking spurs. 
Like a Centaur he speeds, 
Where the wild bull feeds; 
And he laughs, ha, ha ! — who cares, who 
cares ! 

Ruddy and brown — careless and free — 
A king in the saddle — he rides at will 
O'er the measureless range where rarely 

change 
The swart gray plains so weird and strange, 
Treeless, and streamless, and wondrous still! 
With his slouch sombrero, 
His torn chapparejos. 
And clinking spurs. 
Like a Centaur he speeds 
Where the wild bull feeds; 
And he laughs, ha, ha ! — who cares, who 
cares ! 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



453 



He of the towns, he of the East, 
Has only a vague, dull thought of him; 
In his far-ofP dreams the cowboy seems 
A mythical thing, a thing he deems 
A Hun or a Goth as swart and grim ! 

With his stained sombrero, 

His rough chapparejos, 
And clinking spurs. 

Like a Centaur he speeds, 

Where the wild bull feeds; 
And he laughs, ha, ha ! — who cares, who 
cares ! 

Often alone, his saddle a throne, 

He scans like a sheik the numberless herd; 

Where the buffalo-grass and the sage-grass 

dry 
In the hot white glare of a cloudless sky, 
And the music of streams is never heard. 
With his gay sombrero, 
His brown chapparejos. 

And clinking spurs, 
Like a Centaur he speeds, 
Where the wild bull feeds; 
And he laughs, ha, ha ! — who cares, who 
cares ! 

Swift and strong, and ever alert, 

Yet sometimes he rests on the dreary 

vast; 
And his thoughts, like the thoughts of 

other men. 
Go back to his childhood days again. 
And to many a loved one in the past. 
With his gay sombrero, 
His rude chapparejos. 
And clinking spurs, 
He rests awhile. 
With a tear and a smile, 
Then he laughs, ha, ha ! — who cares, who 
cares ! 

Sometimes his mood from solitude 
Hurries him, heedless, off to the town ! 
Where mirth and wine through the goblet 

shine. 
And treacherous sirens twist and twine 
The lasso that often brings him down; 
With his soaked sombrero. 
His rent chapparejos. 
And clinking spurs, 
He staggers back 
On the homeward track. 
And shouts to the plains — who cares, who 
cares ! 



On his broncho's back he sways and swings, 
Yet mad and wild with the city's fume; 
His pace is the pace of the song he sings, 
And the ribald oath that maudlin clings 
Like the wicked stench of the harlot's room. 

With his ragged sombrero. 

His torn chapparejos. 
His rowel-less spurs, 

He dashes amain 

Through the trackless rain; 
Reeling and reckless — who cares, who 
cares ! 

'T is over late at the ranchman's gate — 
He and his fellows, perhaps a score. 
Halt in a quarrel o'er night begun, 
With a ready blow and a random gun — 
There 's a dead, dead comrade ! nothing 
more. 
With his slouched sombrero, 
His dark chapparejos. 
And clinking spurs, 
He dashes past, 
With face o'ercast, 
And growls in his throat — who cares, who 
cares ! 

Away on the range there is little change; 
He blinks in the sun, he herds the steers; 
But a trail on the wind keeps close behind. 
And whispers that stagger and blanch the 

mind 
Through the hum of the solemn noon he 
hears. 
With his dark sombrero, 
His stained chapparejos, 

His clinking spurs. 
He sidles down 
Where the grasses brown 
May hide his face, while he sobs — who 
cares ! 

But what care I, and what cares he — 
This is the strain, common at least; 
He is free and vain of his bridle-rein. 
Of his spurs, of his gun, of the dull, gray 

plain ; 
He is ever vain of his broncho beast ! 
With his gray sombrero. 
His brown chapparejos. 

And clinking spurs. 
Like a Centaur he speeds. 
Where the wild bull feeds; 
And he laughs, ha, ha ! — who cares ! who 
cares ! John Antrobus 



454 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



II 



ALL QUIET ALONG THE 
POTOMAC 

" All quiet along the Potomac," they say, " 

" Except now and theii a; stray picket 
Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro, 

By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 
'T is nothing — a private or two now and 
then 

Will not count in the news of the battle; 
Not an officer lost — only one of the men. 

Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle;" 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 
Where the soldiers lie peacefully dream^ 
ing; 
Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn 
moon, 
Or the light of the watch-fire, are gleam- 
ing. 
A tremulous sigh of the gentle night-wind 
Through the forest leaves softly is creep- 
ing; 
While stars up above, with their glittering 
eyes. 
Keep guard, for the army is sleeping. 

There 's only the sound of the lone_sentry's 
tread. 
As he tramps from the rock to the foun- 
tain. 
And thinks of the two in the low trundle- 
bed 
Far away in the cot on the mountain. 
His musket falls slack; his f^-ce, dark and 
grim, 
Grows gentle with memories tender. 
As he mutters a prayer for the children 
asleep, 
For their mother; may Heaven defend 
her ! 

The moon seems to shine just as brightly 
as then. 
That night, when the love yet unspoken 
Leaped up to his lips -^ — when low-mur- 
mured vows 
Were pledged to be ever unbroken. 
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his 
eyes. 
He dashes off tears that are welling, 
A.nd gathers his gun closer up to its place. 
As if to keep do\vn the heart-swelling. 



He passes the fountain, the blasted pine- 
tree. 
The footstep is lagging and weary; 
Yet onward he goes, through the broad 
belt of light. 
Toward the shade of the forest so dreary. 
Hark ! was it the night-wind that rustled 
the leaves ? 
Was it moonlight so wondrously flash- 



ing 



"Ha! Mary, 



It looked , like a rifle . 
good-bye ! " 
The red life-blood is ebbing and plash- 
ing.. 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night; 

No sound save the^rush of the river; 
While soft falls the dew on the face of the 
dead-:— 
The picket 'S off duty forever ! 

Ethel Lynn Beers 



SAMBO'S RIGHT TO BE KILT 

Some tell us 't is a burnin' shame 

To make the naygers fight; 
An' that the thrade of bein' kilt 

Belongs but to the white: 
But as for me, upon my sowl ! 

So liberal are we here, 
I '11 let Sambo be murthered instead of 
myself. 
On every day in the year. 

On every day in the year, boys. 
And in every hour of the day; 
The right to be kilt I '11 divide wid 
him. 
An' divil a word I '11 say. 

In battle's wild commotion 
I should n't at all object 
If Sambo's body should stop a ball 

That was comin' for me direct; 
And the prod of a Southern bagnet, 

So ginerous are we here, 
I '11 resign, and let Sambo take it 
On every day in the year. 

On every day in the year, boys. 

And wid none o' your nasty pride. 
All my right in a Southern bagnet 
prod 
Wid Sambo I '11 divide! 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



455 



The men who object to Sarabo 

Should take his place and fight; 
And it 's betther to have a nayger's hue 

Than a liver that 's wake an' white. 
Though Sambo 's black as the ace of spades, 

His finger a thrigger can pull, 
And his eye runs sthraight on the barrel- 
sights 
From undher its thatch of wool. 
So hear me all, boys darlin', 

Don't think I 'm tippin' you chaff. 
The right to be kilt we '11 divide wid 
him, 
And give him the largest half ! 

Charles Graham Halpine 



THE BAND IN THE PINES , 

(after pelham died) 

Oh, band in the pine-wood, cease ! 

Cease with your splendid call; 
The living are brave and noble, 

But the dead are bravest of all ! ' 

They throng to the martial summons, 
To the loud triumphant strain. 

And the dear bright 'eyes of long-dead 
friends 
Come to the heart again ! 

They come with the ringing bugle, 
And the deep drums' mellow roar; 

Till the soul is faint with longing 
For the hands we clasp no more ! 

Oh, band in the' pine-wood, cease ! 

Or the heart will melt with tears, 
For the gallant eyes and the smiling lips. 

And the voices of old years. 

John Esten Cooke 

THE VOLUNTEER 

" At dawn," he said, « I bid them all fare- 
well, 
To go where bugles call and rifles gleam." 
And with the restless thought asleep he fell. 
And glided into dream. 

A great hot plain from sea to mountain 
spread, ^— 
Through it a level river slowly drawn; 



He moved with a vast crowd, and at its 
head 
Streamed banners like the dawn. 

There came a blinding flash, a deafening 
roar. 
And dissonant cries of triumph and dis- 
may; 
Blood trickled down the river's reedy shore, 
And with the dead he lay. 

The morn broke in upon his solemn 
dream, 
And still, with steady pulse and deepen- 
ing eye, 
" Where bugles call," he said, " and rifles 
gleam, 
I follow, though I die ! " ' 

Elbridge Jefferson Cutler 



STONEWALL JACKSON 

Not midst the lightning of the stormy 

fight. 
Nor in the rush upon the vandal foe. 
Did kingly Death, with his resistless might, 
Lay the great leader low. 

His warrior soul its earthly shackles broke 
In the full sunshine of a peaceful town ; 
When all the storm was hushed, the trusty 
oak 
That propped our cause went down. 

Though his alone the blood that flecks the 

ground. 
Recalling all his grand heroic deeds, 
Freedom herself is writhing in the wound, 
And all the country bleeds. 

He entered not the nation's Promised 

Land 
At the red belching of the cannon's mouth. 
But broke the House of Bondage with his 

band — 
The Moses of the South ! 

O gracious God ! not gainless is the loss: 
A glorious sunbeam gilds thy sternest frown; 
And while his country staggers 'neath the 
Cross, 
He rises with the Crown ! 

Henry Lynden Flash 



45 6 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



ROLL-CALL 

"Corporal Green ! " the Orderly cried; 
" Here ! " was the answer loud and clear, 
From the lips of a soldier who stood 
near, — 
And " Here ! " was the word the next re- 
plied. 

*' Cyrus Drew ! " — then a silence fell; 

This time no answer followed the call; 

Only his rear-man had seen him fall: 
Killed or wounded — he could not tell. 

There they stood in the failing light. 
These men of battle, with grave, dark 

looks. 
As plain to be read as open books. 

While slowly gathered the shades of night. 

The fern on the hillsides was splashed 
with blood. 
And down in the corn, where the poppies 

grew, 
Were redder stains than the poppies 
knew, 
And crimson-dyed was the river's flood. 

For the foe had crossed from the other side. 
That day, in the face of a murderous 

fire 
That swept them down in its terrible ire; 
■ And their life-blood went to color the tide. 

"Herbert Cline!" — At the call there 
came 
Two stalwart soldiers into the line. 
Bearing between them this Herbert Cline, 

Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name. 

" Ezra Kerr ! " — and a voice answered 
"Here!" , 
" Hiram Kerr ! " — but no man replied. 
They were brothers, these two; the sad 
wind sighed, 
And a shudder crept through the cornfield 
near. 

•' Ephraim Deane ! " — then a soldier 
spoke: 
" Deane carried our regiment's colors," 

he said, 
"When our ensign was shot; I left him 
dead 
Just after the enemy wavered and broke. 



" Close to the roadside his body lies; 

I paused a moment and gave him to 

drink ; 
He murmured his mother's name, I think, 
And Death came with it and closed his 
eyes." 

'T was a victory, — yes; but it cost us dear: 
For that company's roll, when called at 

night. 
Of a hundred men who went into the 
fight, 
Numbered but twenty that answered 
''Here!" 

Nathaniel Graham Shepherd 



"PICCIOLA" 

It was a Sergeant old and gray. 

Well singed and bronzed from siege and 
pillage. 

Went tramping in an army's wake 
Along the turnpike of the village. 

For days and nights the winding host 
Had through the little place been march- 
ing. 
And ever loud the rustics cheered, 

Till every throat was hoarse and parch- 
iHg. 

The Squire and Farmer, maid and dame. 
All took the sight's electric stirring. 

And hats were waved and staves were sung, 
And kerchiefs white were countless 
whirring. 

They only saw a gallant show 

Of heroes stalwart under banners, 

And, in the fierce heroic glow, 

'T was theirs to yield but wild hosannas 

The Sergeant heard the shrill hurrahs, 
Where he behind in step was keeping; 

But glancing down beside the road 
He saw a little maid sit weeping. 

" And how is this ? " he gruffly said, 
A moment pausing to regard her; — 

" Why weepest thou, my little chit ? " 
And then she only cried the harder. 

" And how \» this, my little chit ? " 
The sturdy trooper straight repeated, 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



457 



" When all the village cheers us on, 
That you, in tears, apart are seated ? 

" We march two hundred thousand strong, 
And that 's a sight, my baby beauty, 

To quicken silence into song 
And glorify the soldier's duty." 

"It 's very, very grand, I know," 
The little maid gave soft replying; 

" And Father, Mother, Brother too. 
All say • Hurrah ' while I am crying; 

" But think — O Mr. Soldier, think, — 
How many little sisters' brothers 

Are going all away to fight 

And may be killed, as well as others ! " 

" Why, bless thee, child," the Sergeant 
said, 

His brawny hand her curls caressing, 
" 'Tis left for little ones like thee 

To find that War 's not all a blessing." 

And " Bless thee ! " once again he cried ; 

Then cleared his throat and looked in- 
dignant. 
And marched away with wrinkled brow 

To stop the struggling tear benignant. 

And still the ringing shouts went up 

From doorway, thatch, and fields of til- 



The pall behind the standard seen 
By one alone of all the village. 

The oak and cedar bend and writhe 

When roars the wind through gap and 
braken ; 
But 't is the tenderest reed of all 

That trembles first when Earth is shaken. 
Robert Henry Newell 

REVEILLE 

The morning is cheery, my boys, arouse ! 
The dew shines bright on the chestnut 

boughs. 
And the sleepy mist on the river lies. 
Though the east is flushing with crimson 
dyes. 
Awake ! awake ! awake ! 

O'er field and wood and brake. 
With glories newly born. 

Comes on the blushing morn. 
Awake ! awake ! 



You have dreamed of your homes and 

friends all night; 
You have basked in your sweethearts' 

smiles so bright; 
Come, part with them all for a while 

again, — 
Be lovers in dreams ; when awake, be 
men. 
Turn out ! turn out ! turn out ! 

You have dreamed full long, I know. 
Turn out ! turn out ! turn out ! 
The east is all aglow. 
Turn out ! turn out ! 

From every valley and hill there come 
The clamoring voices of fife and drum; 
And out in the fresh, cool morning air 
The soldiers are swarming everywhere. 
Fall in ! fall in ! fall in ! 

Every man in his place. 
Fall in ! fall in ! fall in ! 
Each with a cheerful face. 
Fall in 1 fall in ! 

Michael O'Connor 



FARRAGUT 

MOBILE BAY, $ AUGUST, 1 864 

Farragut, Farragut, 

Old Heart of Oak, 
Daring Dave Farragut, 

Thunderbolt stroke. 
Watches the hoary mist 

Lift from the bay, 
Till his flag, glory-kissed, 

Greets the young day. 

Far, by gray Morgan's walls, 

Looms the black fleet. 
Hark, deck to rampart calls 

With the drums' beat ! 
Buoy your chains overboard, 

While the steam hums; 
Men ! to the battlement, 

Farragut comes. 

See, as the hurricane 

Hurtles in wrath 
Squadrons of clouds amain 

Back from its path ! 
Back to the parapet, 

To the guns' lips, 
Thunderbolt Farragut 

Hurls the black ships. 



4S8 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Now through the battle's roar 

Clear the boy sings, 
" By the mark fathoms four," 

While his lead swings. 
Steady the wheelmen five 

" Nor' by East keep her," 
" Steady," but two alive : 

How the shells sweep her ! 

Lashed to the mast that sways 

Over red decks, 
Over the flame that plays 

Round the torn wrecks, 
Over the dying lips 

Framed for a cheer, 
Farragut leads his ships, 

Guides the line clear. 

On by heights cannon-browed. 

While the spars quiver; 
Onward still flames the cloud 

Where the hulks shiver. 
See, yon fort's star is set. 

Storm and fire past. 
Cheer him, lads — Farragut, 

Lashed to the mast ! 

Oh ! while Atlantic's breast 

Bears a white sail. 
While the Gulf's towering crest 

Tops a green vale. 
Men thy bold deeds shall tell, 

Old Heart of Oak, 
Daring Dave Farragut, 

Thunderbolt stroke ! 

William Tuckey Meredith 



DRIVING HOME THE COWS 

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass 
He turned them into the river-lane; 

One after another he let them pass, 
Then fastened the meadow-bars again. 

Under the willows, and over the hill, 
He patiently followed their sober pace; 

The merry whistle for once was still, 
And something shadowed the sunny face. 

Only a boy ! and his father had said 
He never could let his youngest go: 

Two already were lying dead 

Under the feet of the trampling foe. 



But after the evening work was done, 
And the frogs were loud in the meadowr 
swamp. 
Over his shoulder he slung his gun 

And stealthily followed the foot-path 
damp. 

Across the clover, and through the wheat, 
With resolute heart and purpose grim, 

Though cold was the dew on his hurrying 
feet 
And the blind bat's flitting startled him. 

Thrice since then had the lanes been white. 
And the orchards sweet with apple- 
bloom ; 
And now, when the cows came back at 
night. 
The feeble father drove the-m home. 

For news had come to the lonely farm 
That three were lying where two had 
lain; 

And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm 
Could never lean on a son's again. 

The summer day grew cool and late. 

He went for the cows when the work 
was done; 
But down the lane, as he opened the gate, 

He saw them coming one by one : 

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 

Shaking their horns in the evening wind; 

Cropping the buttercups out of the grass — 
But who was it following close behind ? 

Loosely swung in the idle air 
The empty sleeve of army blue ; 

And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, 
Looked out a face that the father knew. 

For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, 
And yield their dead unto life again; 

And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn 
In golden glory at last may wane. 

The great tears sprang to their meeting 
eyes; 
For the heart must speak when the lips 
are dumb: 
And under the silent evening skies 

Together they followed the cattle home. 
Kate Putnam Osgood 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



459 



NEGRO SPIRITUALS! 

m DAT GREAT GITTIN'-UP MORNIN' 

I 'm a gwine to tell you bout de comin' 

de Saviour, — 
Fare you well, Fare you well, 
Dere 's a better day a-comin', 
When my Lord speaks to his Fader, 
Says, Fader, I 'm tired o' bearin', 
Tired o' bearin' for poor sinners: 
O preachers, fold your Bibles; 
Prayer-makers, pray no more, 
For de last soiil 's converted. 
In dat great gittin'-up Mornin', 
Fare you well, Fare you well. 

De Lord spoke to Gabriel: 
Say, go look behind de altar. 
Take down de silver trumpet, 
Go down to de sea-side, 
Place one foot on de dry land, 
Place de oder on de sea, 
Raise your hand to heaven. 
Declare by your Maker, 
Dat time shall be no longer. 

In dat great gittin'-up Mornin', etc. 

Blow your trumpet, Gabriel. 
Lord, how loud shall I blow it ? 
Blow it right calm and easy. 
Do not alarm my people, 
Tell dem to come to judgment, 

In dat great gittin'-up Mornin', etc. 



Gabriel, blow your trumpet. 
Lord, how loud shall I blow it ? 
Loud as seven peals of thunder. 
Wake de sleepin' nations. 
Den you see poor sinner risin', 
See de dry bones a creepin', 

In dat great gittin'-up Mornin', etc. 

Den you see de world on fire, 
You see de moon a bleedin', 
See de stars a fallin', 
See de elements meltin', 
See de forked lightnin', 
Hear de rumblin' thunder. 



Ill 

Earth shall reel and totter, 
Hell shall be uncapped, 
De dragon shall be loosened. 
Fare you well, poor sinner. 
ob In dat great gittin'-up Mornin', 

Fare you well. Fare you well. 



STARS BEGIN TO FALL 

I TINK I hear my brudder say. 
Call de nation great and small; 
I lookee on de God's right hand 
When de stars begin to fall. 

Oh, what a mournin', sister, — 
Oh, what a mournin', brudder, - 
Oh, what a mournin'. 
When de stars begin to fall ! 



ROLL, JORDAN, ROLL 

My brudder sittin' on de tree of life 
An' he yearde when Jordan roll. 
Roll, Jordan, 
Roll, Jordan, 
Roll, Jordan, roll ! 
O march de angel march; 
O my soul arise in Heaven, Lord, 
For to yearde when Jordan roll. 

Little chil'en, learn to fear de Lord, 
And let your days be long. 
Roll, Jordan, etc. 

O let no false nor spiteful word 
Be found upon your tongue. 
Roll, Jordan, etc. 



SWING LOW, SWEET CHARIOT 

Oh, de good ole chariot swing so low, ■ 
I don't want to leave me behind. 
O swing low, sweet chariot. 
Swing low, sweet chariot, 

I don't want to leave me behind. 



Oh, de good ole chariot will take us all 
home, — 
I don't want to leave me behind. 
Swing low, sweet chariot, etc. 

Note, p. 812. 



460 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD— DIVISION I 



BRIGHT SPARKLES IN DE CHURCHYARD 


My mother, once. 








My mother, twice. 


May de Lord — He will be 


glad 


of 


My mother she '11 rejoice. 


me — 






In de heaven once, etc. 


In de heaven He '11 rejoice. 








In de heaven, once, 






Mother, rock me in de cradle all de day; — 


In de heaven, twice. 






All de day, etc. 


In de heaven He '11 rejoice. 






Oh, mother, don't yer love yer darlin' child ? 
Oh, rock me in de cradle all de day. 


Bright sparkles in de churchyard 






Rock me, etc. 


Give light unto de tomb; 






You may lay me down to sleep, my mother 


Bright summer, spring 's over, 






dear. 


Sweet flowers in der bloom. 






Oh, rock me in de cradle all de day. 



IV 



THE PYXIDANTHERA 



Sweet child of April, I have found thy 

place 
Of deep retirement. Where the low 

swamp ferns 
Curl upward from their sheaths, and 

lichens creep 
Upon the fallen branch, and mosses dark 
Deepen and brighten, where the ardent sun 
Doth enter with restrained and chastened 

beam, 
And the light cadence of the blue-bird's 

song 
Doth falter in the cedar, — there the 

Spring 
In gratitude hath wrought the sweet sur- 
prise 
And marvel of thy unobtrusive bloom. 

Most perfect symbol of my purest 

thought, — 
A thought so close and warm within my 

heart 
No words can shape its secret, and no 

prayer 
Can breathe its sacredness — be thou my 

type, 
And breathe to one, who wanders here at 

dawn. 
The deep devotion, which, transcending 

speech, 
Lights all the folded silence of my heart 
As thy sweet beauty doth the shadow here. 

So let thy clusters brighten, star on star 
Of pink and white about his lingering feet, 



Till, dreaming and enchanted, there shall 

pass 
Into his life the story that my soul 
Hath given thee. So shall his will be 

stirred 
To purest purpose and divinest deed. 
And every hour be touched with grace and 

light. 

Augusta Cooper Bristol 



YELLOW JESSAMINE 

In tangled wreaths, in clustered gleaming 
stars. 
In floating, curling sprays, 
The golden flower comes shining through 
the woods 
These February days; 
Forth go all hearts, all hands, from out the 
town, 
To bring her gayly in, 
This wild, sweet Princess of far Floiv 
ida — 
The yellow jessamine. 

The live-oaks smile to see her lovely face 

Peep from the thickets; shy. 
She hides behind the leaves her golden 
buds 
Till, bolder grown, on high 
She curls a tendril, throws a spray, then 
flings 
Herself aloft in glee, 
And, bursting into thousand blossoms, 
swings 
In wreaths from tree to tree. 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



461 



The dwarf-palmetto on his knees adores 

This Princess of the air; 
The lone pine-barren broods afar and sighs, 

" Ah ! come, lest I despair; " 
The myrtle-thickets and ill-tempered thorns 

Quiver and thrill within, 
As through their leaves they feel the dainty 
touch 

Of yellow jessamine. 

The garden-roses wonder as they see 

The wreaths of golden bloom, 
Brought in from the far woods with eager 
haste 
To deck the poorest room, 
The rich man's house, alike; the loaded 
hands 
Give sprays to all they meet. 
Till, gay with flowers, the people come and 
go, 
And all the air is sweet. 

The Southern land, well weary of its green 

Which may not fall nor fade. 
Bestirs itself to greet the lovely flower 

With leaves of fresher shade ; 
The pine has tassels, and the orange-trees 

Their fragrant work begin: 
The spring has come — has come to Florida, 

With yellow jessamine. 

Constance Fenimore Woolson 

THE PETRIFIED FERN 

In a valley, centuries ago, 

Grew a little fern-leaf, green and 

slender, 
Veining delicate and fibres tender; 
Waving when the wind crept down so low; 
Rushes tall, and moss, and'grass grew 

round it. 
Playful sunbeams darted in and found 

it. 
Drops of dew stole in by night, and 

crowned it, 
But no foot of man e'er trod that way; 
Earth was young and keeping holiday. 

Monster fishes swam the silent main, 

Stately forests waved their giant 

branches, 
Mountains hurled their snowy ava- 
lanches. 
Mammoth creatures stalked across the 
plain; 



Nature revelled in grand mysteries; 
But the little fern was not of these, 
Did not number with the hills and 

trees. 
Only grew and waved its wild sweet 

way, — 
No one came to note it day by day. 

Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood, 

Heaved the rocks and changed the 

mighty motion 
Of the deep, strong currents of the 

ocean; 
Moved the plain and shook the haughty 

wood, 
Crushed the little fern in soft moist 

clay, 
Covered it, and hid it safe away. 
Oh the long, long centuries since that 

day ! 
Oh the agony, oh life's bitter cost, 
Since that useless little fern was lost ! 

Useless ! Lost ! There came a thought- 
ful man 
Searching Nature's secrets, far and 

deep; 
From a fissure in a rocky steep 
He withdrew a stone, o'er which there ran 
Fairy pencillings, a quaint design, 
Veinings, leafage, fibres clear and fine, 
And the fern's life lay in every line ! 
So, I think, God hides some souls away, 
Sweetly to surprise us the last day. 

Mary Bolles Branch 

THE DAWNING O' THE YEAR 

All ye who love the springtime — and 
who but loves it well 

When the little birds do sing, and the buds 
begin to swell ! — 

Think not ye ken its beauty, or know its 
face so dear. 

Till ye look upon old Ireland, in the dawn- 
ing o' the year ! 

For where in all the earth is there any joy 

like this. 
When the skylark sings and soars like a 

spirit into bliss. 
While the thrushes in the bush strain their 

small brown mottled throats, 
Making all the air rejoice with their clear 

and mellow notes; 



462 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD— DIVISION I 



And the blackbird on the hedge in the 

golden sunset glow 
Trills with saucy, side-tipped head to the 

bonny nest below; 
And the dancing wind slips down through 

the leaves of the boreen, 
And all the world rejoices in the wearing 

o' the green ! 

For 'tis green, green, green, where the 

ruined towers are gray, 
And it 's green, green, green, all the happy 

night and day; 
Green of leaf and green of sod, green of 

ivy on the wall. 
And the blessed Irish shamrock with the 

fairest green of all. 

There the primrose breath is sweet, and 

the yellow gorse is set 
A crown of shining gold on the headlands 

brown and wet; 
Not a nook of all the land but the daisies 

make to glow. 
And the happy violets pray in their hidden 

cells below. 

And it 's there the earth is merry, like a 

young thing newly made 
Running wild amid the blossoms in the field 

and in the glade. 
Babbling ever into music under skies with 

soft clouds piled. 
Like the laughter and the tears in the blue 

eyes of a child. 

But the green, green, green, O 'tis that is 
blithe and fair ! 

In the fells and on the hills, gay and glad- 
some as the air. 

Lying warm above the bog, floating brave 
on crag and glen. 

Thrusting forty banners high where another 
land has ten. 

Sure Mother Nature knows of her sore and 

heavy grief, 
And thus with soft caress would give solace 

and relief; 
Would fold her close in loveliness to keep 

her from the cold, 
And clasp the mantle o'er her heart with 

emeralds and gold. 
Bo ye who love the springtime, — and who 

but loves it well 



When the little birds do sing, and the buds 
begin to swell ! — 

Think not ye ken its beauty or know its 
face so dear 

Till ye meet it in old Ireland in the dawn- 
ing o' the year ! 

Mary Elizabeth Blake 



THE WILLIS 

The Willis are out to-night, 
In the ghostly pale moonlight. 
With robes and faces white. 

Swiftly they circle round. 
And make not any sound. 
Nor footprint on the ground. 

The forest is asleep; 

All things that fly or creep 

A death-like silence keep. 

A fear is over all; 

From spectral trees and tall 

The gathering night-dews fall. 

Moveless are leaf and limb, 
While through the forest dim 
Slow glides a figure slim. 

A figure slim and fair, 

With loosened, streaming hair, 

Watching the Willis there ! 

" These are the ghosts," she said, 
" Of hapless ones unwed. 
Who loved and now are dead." 

Her hair was drenched with dew; 
The moonlight shimmered through, 
And showed its raven hue. 

" Each one of these," she cried, 

" Or ever she was a bride. 

For love's sake sinned and died." 

"I come," she said, " I too; 

Ye are by one too few," 

And joined the phantom crew. 

Swiftly they circled round, 
Nor was there any sound. 
Nor footprint on the ground. 

David Law Proudfit 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



463 



TWO OF A TRADE 

The dragon-fly and I together 

Sail up the stream in the summer weather; 
He at the stern all green and gold, 
And I at the oars, our course to hold. 

Above the floor of the level river 
The bent blades dip and spring and quiver; 
And the dragon-fly is here and there, 
Along the water and in the air. 



And thus we go as the sunshine mellows; 

A pair of Nature's merriest fellows; 

For the Spanish cedar is light and true, 
And instead of one, it has carried two. 

And thus we sail without care or sorrow, 
With trust for to-day and hope for to- 
morrow; 
He at the stern, all green and gold, 
And I at the oars, our course to hold. 
Samuel Willoughby Duffield 



V 



SONNETS 



AN OPEN SECRET 



Would the lark sing the sweeter if he 

knew 
A thousand hearts hung breathless on his 

_ lay ? 
And if " How fair ! " the rose could hear us 

say, 
Would she, her primal fairness to outdo. 
Take on a richer scent, a lovelier hue ? 
Who knows or cares to answer yea or 

nay? 

tuneful lark ! sail, singing, on your way. 
Brimmed with excess of ecstasy; and you, 
Sweet rose ! renew with every perfect June 
Your perfect blossoming ! Still Nature- 
wise, 

Sing, bloom, because ye must, and not for 

praise. 
If only we, who covet the fair boon 
Of well-earned fame, and wonder where it 

lies. 
Would read the secret in your simple ways ! 

RECONCILIATION 

If thou wert lying cold and still and white 
In death's embraces, O mine enemy ! 

1 think that if I came and looked on thee, 
I should forgive; that something in the 

sight 
Of thy still face would conquer me, by right 
Of death's sad impotence, and I should 

see 
How pitiful a thing it is to be 



At feud with aught that 's mortal. So to- 
night, 

My soul, unfurling her white flag of peace, 

Forestalling that dread hour when we may 
meet, — 

The dead face and the living, — fain would 

cry» 
Across the years, "Oh, let our warfare 

cease ! 
Life is so short, and hatred is not sweet; 
Let there be peace between us ere we 

die ! " 

Caroline Atherton Mason 



NOW 

Upon my bier no garlands lay, 
To shrivel at death's icy touch; 

Tansies for thought bequeathed to-day, 
Were worth a thousand such ! 

Rare flowers too often serve the pride 
Which grants them '■ — naught beside. 

No lavish tears that laggard be, 
Pour vainly on my pulseless clay; 

A single drop of sympathy 
Were richer boon to-day; 

To-day I need it — but, thank God, 
No need is in the sod. 

Yield now the sign, or let me go 
Unlaurelled into waiting space; 

Not taunted by a hollow show 
Of friendship's tardy grace; 

Not mocked by fruits that would not fall 
Save as an idle pall. 



464 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD^ DIVISION I 



Fair blossoms with love's dewdrops wet, 
And fondly laid in folded hands, 

Must hold the grateful spirit yet 
While wandering in strange lands; 

But wounded souls the meed must spurn 
That only Death can earn ! 

Mary Barker Dodge 

A LIVING MEMORY 

My absent daughter — gentle, gentle maid. 

Your life doth never fade ! 
O, everywhere I see your blue eyes shine. 
And on my heart, in healing or command, 
I feel the pressure of your small, warm 
hand 
That slipped at dawn, almost without a 
sign. 
So softly out of mine ! 

The birds all sing of you, my darling one ; 

Your day was just begun, 
But you had learned to love all things 
that grew; 
And when I linger by the streamlet's side 
Where weed and bush to you were glori- 
fied, 
The violet looks up as if it knew. 
And talks to me of you. 

The lily dreams of you. The pensive rose 

Reveals you where it glows 
In purple trance above the waterfall; 
The fragrant fern rejoices by the pond, 
And sets your dear face in its feathery 
frond; 
The winds blow chill, but, sounding over all, 
I hear your sweet voice call ! 

My gentle daughter ! With us you have 
stayed. 
Your life doth never fade ! 
0, evermore I see your blue eyes shine. 
In subtle moods I cannot understand, 
I feel the flutter of your tender hand 
That slipped at dawn, almost without a 
sign, 
So softly out of mine ! 

William Augustus Croffut 

WAITING 

Serene, I fold my hands and wait, 
Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea; 



I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, 
For, lo ! my own shall come to me. 

I stay my haste, I make delays. 
For what avails this eager pace ? 

I stand amid the eternal ways. 

And what la mine shall know my face. 

Asleep, awake, by night or day. 
The friends I seek are seeking me; 

No wind can drive my bark astray, 
Nor change the tide of destiny. 

What matter if I stand alone ? 

I wait with joy the coming years; 
My heart shall reap where it has sown. 

And garner up its fruit of tears. 

The waters know their own and draw 
The brook that springs in yonder height; 

So flows the good with equal law 
Unto the soul of pure delight. 

The stars come nightly to the sky; 

The tidal wave unto the sea; 
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, 

Can keep my own away from me. 

John Burroughs 



DEAD LOVE 

Two loves had I. Now both are dead. 
And both are marked by tombstones 
white. 

The one stands in the churchyard near, 
The other hid from mortal sight. 

The name on one all men may read, 
And learn who lies beneath the stone; 

The other name is written where 
No eyes can read it but my own. 

On one I plant a living flower. 
And cherish it with loving hands; 

I shun the single withered leaf 

That tells me where the other stands. 

To that white tombstone on the hill 

In summer days I often go; 
From this white stone that nearer lies 

I turn me with miuttered woe. 

O God, I pray, if love must die, 
And make no more of life a part, 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



465 



Let witness be where all can see, 
And not within a living heart. 

Mary Mathews Adams 

DISARMED 

O LOVE, SO sweet at first. 

So bitter in the end ! 
Thou canst be fiercest foe, 

As well as fairest friend. 
Are these poor withered leaves 

The fruitage of thy May ? 
Thou that wert strong to save, 

How art thou swift to slay ! 

Ay, thou art swift to slay, 

Despite thy kiss and clasp, 
Thy long, caressing look. 

Thy subtle, thrilling grasp ! 
Ay, swifter far to slay 

Than thou art strong to save, 
And selfish in thy need, 

And cruel as the grave. 

Yes, cruel as the grave, — 

Go, go, and come no more ! 
But canst thou set my heart 

Just where it was before ? 
Go, go, — and come no more ! 

Go, leave me with my tears, 
The only gift of thine 

That shall outlive the years. 

Yet shall outlive the years 

One other, cherished thing. 
Slight as a vagrant plume 

Shed from some passing wing: — 
The memory of thy first 

Divine, half-timid kiss. 
Go ! I forgive thee all 

In weeping over this ! 

Laura Redden Searing 
(" Howard Glyndon ") 



POST-MERIDIAN 1 

AFTERNOON 

When in thy glass thou studiest thy face, 
Not long, nor yet not seldom, half repelled 
And half attracted; when thou hast beheld 
Of Time's slow ravages the crumbling 

trace, 
(Deciphered now with many an interspace 
The characters ere while that Beauty 

spelled). 
And in thy throat a choking fear hath 

swelled. 
Of Love, grown cold, eluding thy embrace: 
Couldst thou but read my gaze of tender- 
ness — 
Affection fused with pity — precious tears 
Would bring relief to thy unjust distress; 
Thy visage, even as it to me appears. 
Would seem to thee transfigured; thoa 

wouldst bless 
Me, who am also, Dearest ! scarred with 
years. 

EVENING 

Age cannot wither her whom not gray hairs 
Nor furrowed cheeks have made the thrall 

of Time; 
For Spring lies hidden under Winter's rime, 
And violets know the victory is theirs. 
Even so the corn of Egypt, unawares. 
Proud Nilus shelters with engulfing slime; 
So Etna's iardening crust a more sublime 
Volley of pent-up fires at last prepares. 
O face yet fair, if paler, and serene 
With sense of duty done without complaint ! 
O venerable crown ! — a living green. 
Strength to the weak, and courage to the 

faint — 
Thy bleaching locks, thy wrinkles, have 

but been 
Fresh beads upon the rosary of a saint ! 

Wendell Phillips Garrison 



VI 



THOREAU'S FLUTE 

We, sighing, said, "Our Pan is dead; 

His pipe hangs mute beside the river; 

Around it wistful sunbeams quiver. 
But Music's airy voice is fled. 



Spring mourns as for untimely frost; 

The bluebird chants a requiem ; 

The willow-blossom waits for him; ■ 
The Genius of the wood is lost." 



1 See, also, the Sonnet on p. 794. 



466 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



Then from the flute, untouched by hands, 
There came a low, harmonious breath: 
" For such as he there is no death; 

His life the eternal life commands; 

Above man's aims his nature rose: 
The wisdom of a just content 
Made one small spot a continent, 

And turned to poetry Life's prose, 

" Haunting the hills, the stream, the wild. 
Swallow and aster, lake and pine, 
To him grew human or divine, — 

Fit mates for this large-hearted child. 

Such homage Nature ne'er forgets. 
And yearly on the coverlid 
'Neath which her darling lieth hid 

Will write his name in violets. 

" To him no vain regrets belong. 
Whose soul, that finer instrument. 
Gave to the world no poor lament. 

But wood-notes ever sweet and strong. 

lonely friend ! he still will be 

A potent presence, though unseen, — 
Steadfast, sagacious, and serene: 
Seek not for him, — he is with thee." 

Louisa May Alcott 

OPPORTUNITY 

" Master of human destinies am I ! 
Fame, love, and fortune on .my footsteps 

wait. 
Cities and fields I walk; I penetrate 
Deserts and seas remote, and passing by 
Hovel and mart and palace — soon or late 

1 knock unbidden once at every gate ! 

" If sleeping, wake — if feasting, rise before 
I turn away. It is the hour of fate. 
And they who follow nae reach every state 
Mortals desire, and conquer every foe 
Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate. 
Condemned to failure, penury, and woe, 
Seek me in vain and uselessly implore. 
I answer not, and I return no more ! " 

John James Ingalls 

THE CONDEMNED 

Read me no moral, priest, upon my life, — 

Reserve that for your flock. 
A few short hours will end my mortal 
strife. 

Upon the gallows block. 



Before the gaping crowd, who come to see 

A fellow mortal die, 
Preach if you choose, and take your text 
from me, — 

To them I cannot lie. 

And still the less can I, a finite man, 

Pretend to cheat my God: 
By him the workings of his mighty plan 

Are clearly understood. 

Conceived in lust, brought up in sordid sin. 

How could I hope to be 
Aught but the outcast I have ever been, 

Fruit for the gallows tree ? 

Go teach the children swarming through 
the town, 

To-day exposed to all 
The poverty and vice that drew me down, — 

Save them before they fall. 

But as for me, I die as I have lived, 

As all men must. 
Believing as I always have believed 

That God is just. 

Edward Rowland 



MY BIRTH 

I HAD my birth where stars were born. 

In the dim seons of the past: 
My cradle cosmic forces rocked. 

And to my first was linked my last. 

Through boundless space the shuttle flew, 
To weave the warp and woof of fate: 

In my begetting were conjoined 
The infinitely small and great. 

The outmost star on being's rim, 
The tiniest sand-grain of the earth, 

The farthest thrill and nearest stir 
Were not indifferent to my birth. 

And when at last the earth swung free, 

A little planet by the moon. 
For me the continent arose. 

For me the ocean roared its tune ; 

For me the forests grew; for me 
The electric force ran to and fro; 

For me tribes wandered o'er the earth, 
Kingdoms arose, and cities grew; 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



467 



For me religions waxed and waned; 

For me the ages garnered store; 
For me ships traversed every sea ; 

For me the wise ones learned their lore ; 

For me, through fire and blood and tears, 
Man struggled onward up the height. 

On which, at last, from heaven falls 
An ever clearer, broader light. 

The child of all the ages, I, 

Nursed on the exhaustless breasts of 
time; 
By heroes thrilled, by sages taught. 

Sung to by bards of every clime. 

Quintessence of the universe, 

Distilled at last from God's own heart. 
In me concentred now abides 

Of all that is the subtlest part. 

The product of the ages past, 
Heir of the future, then, am I: 

So much am I divine that God 
Cannot afford to let me die. 

If I should ever cease to be. 

The farthest star its mate would miss, 
And, looking after me, would fall 

Down headlong darkening to the abyss. 

For, if aught real that is could cease, 

If the All-Father ever nods, 
That day across the heavens would fall 

Ragnarok, twilight of the gods. 

MiNOT JuDSON Savage 



THE INEVITABLE 

I LIKE the man who faces what he must 
With step triumphant and a heart of cheer ; 
Who fights the daily battle without fear; 
Sees his hopes fail, yet keeps unfaltering 

trust 
That God is God, — that somehow, true 

and just 
His plans work out for mortals; not a 

tear 
is shed when fortune, which the world 

holds dear, 
Falls from his grasp — better, with love, a 

crust 



Than living in dishonor; envies not, 
Nor loses faith in man; but does his best. 
Nor ever murmurs at his humbler lot; 
But, with a smile and words of hope, gives 

zest 
To every toiler. He alone is great 
Who by a life heroic conquers fate. 

Sarah Knowles Bolton 



QUATRAINS 

TIME 

Time has no flight — 'tis we who speed 
along; 
The days and nights are but the same as 
when 
The earth' awoke with the first rush of 
song. 
And felt the swiftly passing feet of men. 

INFALLIBILITY 

" Believe in me," the Prophet cried, •■^— 
" I hold the key of life and light: " 

And, lo, one touched him, and he died 
Within the passing of a night. 

POWER 

Haroun, the Caliph, through the sunlit 
street 
Walked slowly with bent head and weary 
breath, 
And cried, " Alas, I cannot stay my feet. 
That move unceasing toward the gate of 
Death." 

DISAPPOINTMENT 

From the drear wastes of unfulfilled desire. 
We harvest dreams that never come to 
pass. 
Then pour our wine amid the dying fire, 
And on the cold hearth break the empty 
glass. 

COMPENSATION 
No ceaseless vigil with hard toil we keep, 
And to grim want give but a passing 
breath ; 
For after labor comes the rest of sleep. 
And hunger cannot make its home with 
death. 

Thomas Stephens Collier 



468 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



VII 



ANCIENT OF DAYS 

Ancient of days, Who sittest, throned in 
glory; 
To Thee all knees are bent, all voices 
pray; 
Thy love has blest the wide world's won- 
drous story, 
With light and life since Eden's dawning 
day. 

O Holy Father, Who hast led Thy children 

In all the ages, with the Fire and Cloud, 

Through seas dry-shod; through weary 

wastes bewildering; 

To Thee, in reverent love, our hearts 

are bowed. 

O Holy Jesus, Prince of Peace and Saviour, 
To Thee we owe the peace that still 
prevails. 
Stilling the rude wills of men's wild be- 
havior, 
And calming passion's fierce and stormy 
gales. 

O Holy Ghost, the Lord and the Life-giver, 
\ Thine is the quickening power that gives 

increase ; 
From Thee have flowed, as from a pleasant 
river. 
Our plenty, wealth, prosperity, and peace. 

O Triune God, with heart and voice adoring. 
Praise we the goodness that doth crown 
our days; 
Pray we, that Thou wilt hear us, still im- 
ploring 
Thy love and favor, kept to us always. 

William Croswell Doane 

O LITTLE TOWN OF BETH- 
LEHEM 

O LITTLE town of Bethlehem, 

How still we see thee lie ! 
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep 

The silent stars go by; 
Yet in thy dark streets shineth 

The everlasting Light; 
The hopes and fears of all the years 

Are met in thee to-night. 

1 See also 



For Christ is born of Mary, 

And, gathered all above. 
While mortals sleep, the angels keep 

Their watch of wondering love. 
O morning stars, together 

Proclaim the holy birth ! 
And praises sing to God the King, 

And peace to men on earth. 

How silently, how silently, 

The wondrous gift is given ! 
So God imparts to human hearts 

The blessings of His heaven. 
No ear may hear His coming, 

But in this world of sin. 
Where meek souls will receive Him still, 

The dear Christ enters in. 

O holy Child of Bethlehem ! 

Descend to us, we pray; 
Cast out our sin, and enter in, 

Be born in us to-day. 
We hear the Christmas angels 

The great glad tidings tell; 
Oh come to us, abide with us, 

Our Lord Emmanuel ! 

Phillips Brooks 



IN GALILEE 

Roman and Jew upon one level lie; 
Great Herod's palaces are ground to dust; 
Upon the synagogues are mould and rust; 
Night winds among the tottering columns 

sigh; 
Yet sparrows through the massive ruins 

fly, 

And o'er the sacred earth's embroidered 

crust 
Still goes the sower forth to sow, still must 
The shepherd with his sheep sit listlessly. 
There towers the mountain where the 

Teacher spake 
In those old times the sweet Beatitudes, 
Surviving kings and codes, fair words and 

feuds. 
There creeps the Jordan to its destined 

lake, 
The fisher casts his net into the sea, 
And still the lilies bloom in Galilee. 

Mary Frances Butts ^ 
p. 588. 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



469 



REINCARNATION 

It cannot be that He who made 

This wondrous world for our delight, 
Designed that all its charms should fade 

And pass forever from our sight; 
That all shall wither and decay, 

And know on earth no life but this, 
With only one finite survey 

Of all its beauty and its bliss. 

It cannot be that all the years 

Of toil and care and grief we live 
Shall find no recompense but tears, 

No sweet return that earth can give; 
That all that leads us to aspire, 

And struggle onward to achieve, 
And every unattained desire 

Were given only to deceive. 

It cannot be that, after all 

The mighty conquests of the mind. 
Our thoughts shall pass beyond recall 

And leave no record here behind; 
That all our dreams of love and fame. 

And hopes that time has swept away, — 
All that enthralled this mortal frame, — 

Shall not return some other day. 

It cannot be that all the ties 

Of kindred souls and loving hearts 
Are broken when this body dies. 

And the immortal mind departs; 
That no serener light shall break 

At last upon our mortal eyes. 
To guide us as our footsteps make 

The pilgrimage to Paradise. 

David Banks Sickels 



ROLL OUT, O SONG 

Roll out, song to God ! 
Move on, ye throngs of men ! 
Chances and changes come and go: 
God change th not ! Amen. 

And on the throngs of men. 
On worrying care and strife. 
Sinks down, as if from angel tongues. 
The word of hope and life. 

Down in the darksome ways 
And worrying whirl of life 
Sinks, like a strain of vesper-song, 
The thought of his great strife 



Who, of the Virgin born. 
Made all our chains His own. 
And broke them with His own right arm, 
Nor left us more alone. 

Amid the weak, one strong, 
Amid the false, one true, 
Amid all change, one changing not, — 
One hope we ne'er shall rue. 
In whose sight all is now. 
In whose love all is best: 
The things of this world pass away, — 
Come, let us in Him rest. 
Amen. 

Frank Sewall 



NOT KNOWING! 

Not knowing the things that shall befall me 
there. Acts xx. 22. 

I KNOW not what will befall me: God 
hangs a mist o'er my eyes; 

And thus, each step of my onward path, He 
makes new scenes arise. 

And every joy He sends to me comes like a 
sweet surprise. 

I see not a step before me as I tread on 

another year; 
But I 've left the past in God's keeping, — 

the future His mercy shall clear, 
And what looks dark in the distance may 

brighten as I draw near. 

For perhaps the dreaded future is less bit- 
ter than I think; 

The Lord may sweeten the waters before I 
stoop to drink; 

Or, if Marah must be Marah, He will stand 
beside its brink. 

It may be He keeps waiting, for the coming 

of my feet. 
Some gift of such rare blessedness, some 

joy so strangely sweet. 
That my lips shall only tremble with the 

thanks they cannot speak. 

O restful, blissful ignorance ! 't is blessed 

not to know; 
It keeps me still in those mighty arms 

which will not let me go. 
And lulls my weariness to rest on the 

bosom that loves me so. 



1 See Biographical NotE, p. 781. 



47° 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



So I go on not knowing, — I would not if 

I might; 
I would rather walk in the dark with God 

than go alone in the light; 
I would rather walk with Him by faith than 

walk alone by sight. 

My heart shrinks back from trials which 

the future may disclose, 
Yet I never had sorrow but what the dear 

Lord chose; 
So I send the coming tears back with the 

whispered word, " He knows." 

Mary Gardiner Brainard 

TO ST. MARY MAGDALEN 

Mid the white spouses of the Sacred Heart, 
After its queen, the nearest, dearest thou: 



Yet the aureola around thy brow 

Is not the virgins' — thine a throne apart. 

Nor yet, my Saint, does faith-Ulumined 

art 
Thy hand with palm of martyrdom endow: 
And when thy hair is all it will allow 
Of glory to thy head, we do not start. 
O more than virgin in thy penitent love ! 
And more than martyr in thy passionate 

woe ! 
Who knelt not with thee on the gory sod, 
How should they now sit throned with 

thee above ? 
Or where the crown our worship could be- 
stow 
Like that long gold which wiped the feet 
of God ? 

Benjamin Dionysius Hill 
(Father Edmund, of the Heart of Mary, C. P.) 



VIII 



NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO 
SLEEP 1 

" Now I lay me down to sleep : 
I pray the Lord my soul to keep," 
Was my childhood's early prayer 
Taught by my mother's love and care. 
Many years since then have fled; 
Mother slumbers with the dead; 
Yet methinks I see her now, 
With love-lit eye and holy brow. 
As, kneeling by her side to pray, 
She gently taught me how to say, 
" Now I lay me down to sleep: 
I pray the Lord my soul to keep." 

Oh ! could the faith of childhood's days, 
Oh ! could its little hymns of praise, 
Oh ! could its simple, joyous trust 
Be recreated from the dust 
That lies around a wasted life, 
The fruit of many a bitter strife ! 
Oh ! then at night in prayer I 'd bend. 
And call my God, my Father, Friend, 
And pray with childlike faith once more 
The prayer my mother taught of yore, — 
" Now I lay me down to sleep: 
I pray the Lord my soul to keep." 

Eugene Henry Pullen 



ONE SATURDAY 

I NEVER had a happier time, 

And I am forty-three. 
Than one midsummer afternoon, 

When it was May with me : 
Life's fragrant May, 
And Saturday, 
And you came out with me to play; 
And up and down the garden walks, 

Among the flowering beans. 
We proudly walked and tossed our heads 

And played that we were queens. 

Thrice prudent sovereigns, we made 

The diadems we wore, 
And fashioned for our royal hands 

The sceptres which they bore; 
But good Queen Bess 
Had surely less 
Than we, of proud self-consciousness, 
While wreaths of honeysuckle hung 

Around your rosy neck, 
And tufts of marigold looped up 

My gown, a " gingham check." 

Our chosen land was parted out. 

Like Israel's, by lot; 
My kingdom, from the garden wall 

Reached to the strawberry plot; 



1 See BiOGEAPHiCAii Note, p. 817. 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



471 



The ouion-bed, 
The beet-tops red, 
The corn which waved above my head, 
The gooseberry bushes, hung with fruit, 

The wandering melon-vine. 
The carrots and the cabbages. 
All, all of them, were mine ! 

Beneath the cherry-tree was placed 

Your throne, a broken chair; 
Your realm was narrower than mine, 

But it was twice as fair: 
Tall hollyhocks. 
And purple phlox. 
And time-observing four-o'clocks, 
Blue lavender, and candytuft, 

And pink and white sweet peas, 
Your loyal subjects, waved their heads 

In every passing breeze. 

Oh ! gay and prosperous was our reign 

Till we were called to tea; — 
But years, since then, have come and gone. 
And I am forty-three ! 
Yet, journeying 
On rapid wing. 
Time has not brought, and cannot bring. 
For you or me, a happier day 

Than when, among the beans, 
We proudly walked and tossed our heads, 
And fancied we were queens. 

Annie Douglas Robinson 
(" Marian Douglas ") 

MY LADDIE'S HOUNDS 

(VIRGINIA mountains) 

They are my laddie's hounds 
That rin the wood at brak o' day. 
Wha is it taks them hence ? Can ony say 

Wha is it taks my laddie's hounds 
At brak o' day ? 

They cleek aff thegither. 
An' then fa' back, wi' room atween 
For ane to walk; sae aften, I hae seen 

The baith cleek aff thegither 
Wi' ane atween ! 

And when toward the pines 
Up yonder lane they loup alang, 
I see ae bonnie laddie brent and Strang, 

I see ae laddie loup alang 
Toward the pines. 



I follow them, in mind, 
Ilk time ; right weel I ken the way, — 
They thrid the wood, an' speel the staney 
brae. 
An' skir the field; I follow them, 
I ken the way. 

They daddle at the creek, 
Whaur down fra aff the reaching-logs 
I stoup, wi' my dear laddie, an' the 
dogs. 
An' drink o' springs that spait the creek 
Maist to the logs. 

He 's but a bairn, atho' 
He hunts the mountain's lonely bree. 
His doggies' ears abune their brows wi' 
glee 
He ties ; he 's but a bairn, atho' 
He hunts the bree. 

Fu' length they a' stretch out 
Upon ae bink that green trees hap 
In shade. He whusslits saft; the beagles 
nap 
Wi' een half shut, a' stretchin' out 
Whaur green trees hap. 

And noo he fades awa' 
Frae 'tween the twa — into the blue. 
My sight gats blind; gude Lord, it isna 
true 
That he has gane for aye, awa' — 
Into the blue ! 

They are my laddie'^s hounds . 
That mak the hill at fa' o' day 
Wi' dowie heads hung laigh; can ony 
say 
Wha is it hunts my laddie's hounds 
Till fa' o' day ? 

Marguerite Elizabeth Easter 



THE CHILDREN 

When the lessons and tasks are all ended. 

And the school for the day is dis' 
missed, 
The little ones gather around me, 

To bid me good night and be kissed: 
Oh, the little white arms that encircle 

My neck in their tender embrace ! 
Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven, 

Shedding sunshine of love on my face ! 



472 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION I 



And when they are gone, I sit dreaming 

Of my childhood too lovely to last, — 
Of joy that my heart will remember, 

While it wakes to the pulse of the past. 
Ere the world and its wickedness made me 

A partner of sorrow and sin, 
When the glory of God was about me, 

And the glory of gladness within. 

All my heart grows as weak as a woman's, 

And the fountain of feeling will flow, 
When I think of the paths steep and stony. 

Where the feet of the dear ones must 
go,— _ 
Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them. 

Of the tempest of fate blowing wild: 
Oh, there 's nothing on earth half so holy 

As the innocent heart of a child ! 

They are idols of hearts and of households; 

They are angels of God in disguise : 
His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses. 

His glory still shines in their eyes; 
Those truants from home and from 
heaven, — 

They have made me more manly and 
mild; 
And I know now how Jesus could liken 

The kingdom of God to a child. 

I ask not a life for the dear ones, 
All radiant, as others have done, 

But that life may have just enough shadow 
To temper the glare of the sun; 

I would pray God to guard them from evil. 



But my prayer would bound back to my- 
self: 
Ah ! a seraph may pray for a sinner. 
But a sinner must pray for himself. 

The twig is so easily bended, 

I have banished the rule and the rod; 
I have taught them the goodness of know- 
ledge, 

They have taught me the goodness of 
God: 
My heart is the dungeon of darkness 

Where I shut them for breaking a rule; 
My frown is sufficient correction; 

My love is the law of the school. 

I shall leave the old house in the autumn. 

To traverse its threshold no more: 
Ah, how I shall sigh for the dear ones 

That meet me each morn at the door ! 
I shall miss the " good nights " and the 
kisses. 

And the gush of their innocent glee, 
The group on the green, and the flowers 

That are brought every morning for -me. 

I shall miss them at morn and at even. 

Their song in the school and the street; 
I shall miss the low hum of their voices, 

And the tread of their delicate feet. 
When the lessons of life are all ended. 

And Death says " The school is dis- 
missed ! " 
May the little ones gather around me, 

To bid me good night and be kissed ! 

Charles Monroe Dickinson 



IX 



"THE DOVES OF VENICE" 

As the Transatlantic tourists 

Have been rowed on the Lagoon, 

They have mourned its ancient glories. 
They have watched the Germans spoon. 

As they 've sailed these famous highways, 
As they 've floated on these tides. 

The arts that most impressed them 
Were the artless German brides. 

As they 've listened to the music 

Of the poor Italian bands. 
Heard the same old tunes repeated. 

Seen the Germans holding hands, — 



They have wondered why all Venice, 

From San Marco to Lagoon, 
Is now illumined only 

By a German honeymoon; 

Why the steeds on the Duomo 

Have not laughed horse-laughs, and shied 
At the too transparent fondness 

Of the modern German bride ! 

Why the very stones of Venice, 

Which the great John Ruskin loves, 

Are nothing but a roosting-place 
For German turtle-doves ! 

Laurence Hutton 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



473 



MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 

JACK AND JILL 

Ah, Jack it was, and with him little Jill, 
Of the same age and size, a neighbor's 

daughter, 
Who on a breezy morning climbed the hill 
To fetch down to the house a pail of water. 
Jack put his best foot foremost on that 

day, — 
Vaulting ambition we have seen before, — 
He stepped too far, of course, and soon he 

lay 
In the vile path, his little crown so sore ! 
The next act in the tragedy was played 
By Jill, whose eager foothold, too, was 

brief. 
Epitome of life, that boy and maid 
Together hoped, together came to grief. 
And in their simple story lies concealed 
The germ of half that 's plucked in fiction's 

field. 

SIMPLE SIMON 

A BOY named Simon sojourned in a dale; 
Some said that he was simple, but I 'm sure 
That he was nothing less than simon pure; 
They thought him so because, forsooth, a 

whale 
He tried to catch in Mother's water-pail. 
Ah ! little boy, timid, composed, demure, — 
He had imagination. Yet endure 
Defeat he could, for he of course did fail. 
But there are Simons of a larger growth. 
Who, too, in shallow waters fish for whales, 
And when they fail they are " unfortunate." 
If the small boy is simple, then are both, 
And the big Simon more, who often rails 
At what he calls ill luck or unkind fate. 

Harriet S. Morgridge 



A THRENODY 

The Ahkoond of Swat is dead. — London 
Papers, 

What, what, what, 

What 's the news from Swat ? 

Sad news, 

Bad news, - 

Comes by the cable led 
Through the Indian Ocean's bed. 



Through the Persian Gulf, the Red 
Sea and the Med- 
iterranean — he 's dead ; 
The Ahkoond is dead ! 

For the Ahkoond I mourn, 

Who would n't ? 
He strove to disregard the message stern. 

But he Ahkoodn't. 
Dead, dead, dead; 

(Sorrow Swats!) 
Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled, 
Swats whom he hath often led 
Onward to a gory bed, 

Or to victory. 

As the case might be, 
Sorrow Swats ! 
Tears shed. 

Shed tears like water, 
Your great Ahkoond is dead ! 

That Swats the matter ! 

Mourn, city of Swat ! 

Your great Ahkoond is not, 

But lain 'mid worms to rot. 

His mortal part alone, his soul was caught 

(Because he was a good Ahkoond) 

Up to the bosom of Mahound. 
Though earthy walls his frame surround 
(Forever hallowed be the ground !) 
And sceptics mock the lowly mound 
And say " He 's now of no Ahkoond ! " 

His soul is in the skies, — 
The azure skies that bend above his loved 
Metropolis of Swat. 

He sees with larger, other eyes, 

Athwart all earthly mysteries — 
He knows what 's Swat. ' 

Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond 
With a noise of mourning and 
of lamentation ! 
Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond 
With the noise of the mourning 
of the Swattish nation ! 

Fallen Is at length 

Its tower of strength. 
Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned; 
Dead lies the great Ahkoond, 

The great Ahkoond of Swat 

Is not ! 

George Thomas Lanigan 



474 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD— DIVISION II 



DIVISION II 

(gilder, O'REILLY, MAURICE THOMPSON, FATHER TABB, EMMA LAZARUS, MRS. 
CORTISSOZ, EDITH THOMAS, EUGENE FIELD, BATES, MARKHAM, WHITCOMB RILEY, 
INA COOLBRITH, R. U. JOHNSON, AND OTHERS) 



idicl^arti H^at^on d^Whtt 



ODE 



I AM the spirit of the morning sea; 

I am the awakening and the glad surprise; 

I fill the skies 

With laughter and with light. 

Not tears, but jollity 

At birth of day brim the strong man- 
child's eyes. 

Behold the white 

Wide three-fold beams that from the hid- 
den sun 

Rise swift and far, — 

One where Orion keeps 

His armed watch, and one 

That to the midmost starry heaven upleaps ; 

The third blots out the firm-fixed Northern 
Star. 
I am the wind that shakes the glittering 
wave, 

Hurries the snowy spume along the shore 

And dies at last in some far-murmuring 
cave. 

My voice thou hearest in the breaker's 
roar — 

That sound which never failed since time 
began. 

And first around the world the shining tu- 
mult ran. 



I light the sea and wake the sleeping land. 
My footsteps on the hills make music, and 

my hand 
Plays like a harper's on the wind-swept 
pines. 

With the wind and the day 
I follow round the world — away ! away ! 
Wide over lake and plain my sunlight 

shines 
And every wave and every blade of grass 
Doth know me as I pass; 



And me the western 

know, and me 
The far-off, golden sea. 



sloping mountains 



sea, whereon the passing sun doth lie ! 
O man, who watchest by that golden sea ! 
Grieve not, — O grieve not thou, but lift 

thine eye 
And see me glorious in the sunset sky ! 

Ill 

1 love not the night 

Save when the stars are bright, 

Or when the moon 

Fills the white air with silence like a tune. 

Yea, even the night is mine 

When the Northern Lights outshine. 

And all the wild heavens throb in ecstasy 

divine ; — 
Yea, mine deep midnight, though the black 

sky lowers. 
When the sea burns white and breaks on 

the shore in starry showers. 



I am the laughter of the new-born child 
On whose soft-breathing sleep an angel 

smiled. 
And I all sweet first things that are: 
First songs of birds, not perfect as at last, — 
Broken and incomplete, — 
But sweet, oh, sweet ! 
And I the first faint glimmer of a star 
To the wrecked ship that tells the storm is 

past; 
The first keen smells and stirrings of the 

Spring; 
First snow-flakes, and first May-flowers 

after snow; 
The silver glow 

Of the new moon's ethereal ring; 
The song the morning stars together made. 
And the first kiss of lovers under the first 

June shade. 



RICHARD WATSON GILDER 



475 



My sword is quick, my arm is strong to 

smite 
In the dread joy and fury of the fight. 
I am with those who win, not those who fly; 
With those who live I am, not those who die. 
Who die ? Nay, nay, that word 
Where I am is unheard; 
For I am the spirit of youth that cannot 

change. 
Nor cease, nor sufPer woe; 
And I am the spirit of beauty that doth 

range 
Through natural forms and motions, and 

each show 
Of outward loveliness. With me have birth 
All gentleness and joy in all the earth. 
Raphael knew me, and showed the world 

my face; 
Me Homer knew, and all the singing race, — 
For I am the spirit of light, and life, and 

mirth. 

THE CELESTIAL PASSION 

O WHITE and midnight sky ! O starry 

bath! 
Wash me in thy pure, heavenly, crystal 

flood; 
Cleanse me, ye stars, from earthly soil and 

scath ; 
Let not one taint remain in spirit or blood ! 
Receive my soul, ye burning, awful deeps; 
Touch and baptize me with the mighty 

power 
That in ye thrills, while the dark planet 

sleeps; 
Make me all yours for one blest, secret 

hour ! 

glittering host ! O high angelic choir ! 
Silence each tone that with thy music jars; 
Fill me even as an urn with thy white fire 
Till all I am is kindred to the stars ! 
Make me thy child, thou infinite, holy 

night — 
So shall my days be full of heavenly light ! 

1 COUNT MY TIME BY TIMES 

THAT I MEET THEE 

I COUNT my time by times that I meet 

thee; 
These are my yesterdays, my morrows, 

noons, 



And nights ; these my old moons and my 

new moons. 
Slow fly the hours, or fast the hours do 

flee. 
If thou art far from or art near to me: 
If thou art far, the bird tunes are no tunes ; 
If thou art near, the wintry days are 

Junes, — 
Darkness is light, and sorrow cannot be. 
Thou art my dream come true, and thou 

my dream ; 
The air I breathe, the world wherein I 

dwell ; 
My journey's end thou art, and thou the 

way; 
Thou art what I would be, yet only seem ; 
Thou art my heaven and thou art my 

hell; 
Thou art my ever-living judgment-day. 

SONGS 

I 

Not from the whole wide world I chose 
thee. 
Sweetheart, light of the land and the 
sea ! 
The wide, wide world could not inclose 
thee, 
For thou art the whole wide world to me. 

II 

Years have flown since I knew thee first, 
And I know thee as water is known of 
thirst ; 
Yet I knew thee of old at the first sweet 
sight. 
And thou art strange to me. Love, to- 
night. 

ON THE LIFE-MASK OF ABRA- 
HAM LINCOLN 

This bronze doth keep the very form and 

mould 
Of our great martyr's face. Yes, this is he: 
That brow all wisdom, all benignity; 
That human, humorous mouth ; those cheeks 

that hold 
Like some harsh landscape all the summer's 

gold; 
That spirit fit for sorrow, as the sea 
For storms to beat on; the lone agony 
Those silent, patient lips too well foretold. 



476 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Yes, this is he who ruled a world of men 
As might some prophet of the elder day — 
Brooding above the tempest and the fray 
With deep-eyed thought and more than 

mortal ken. 
A power was his beyond the touch of art 
Or armed strength — his pure and mighty 

heart. 



THE SONNET 

What is a sonnet ? 'T is the pearly shell 
That murmurs of the far-off murmuring 

sea ; 
A precious jewel carved most curiously; 
It is a little picture painted well. 
What is a sonnet ? 'T is the tear that fell 
From a great poet's hidden ecstasy; 
A two-edged sword, a star, a song, — ah 

me ! 
Sometimes a heavy-tolling funeral bell. 
This was the flame that shook with Dante's 

breath, 
The solemn organ whereon Milton played. 
And the clear glass where Shakespeare's 

shadow falls: 
A sea this is, — beware who ventureth ! 
For like a fiord the narrow floor is laid 
Mid-ocean deep to the sheer mountain walls. 



EVENING IN TYRINGHAM 
VALLEY 

What domes and pinnacles of mist and 
fire 
Are builded in yon spacious realms of 
light 
All silently, as did the walls aspire 

Templing the ark of God by day and 
night ! 
Noiseless and swift, from darkening ridge 

to ridge. 
Through purple air that deepens down the 

day, 
Over the valley springs a shadowy bridge. 

The evening star's keen, solitary ray 
Makes more intense the silence, and the 
glad, 
Unmelancholy, restful, twilight gloom — 
So full of tenderness, that even the sad 
Remembrances that haunt the soul take 
bloom 
Like that on yonder mountain. 



Now the bars 

Of sunset all burn black; the day doth 

fail, 

And the skies whiten with the eternal stars. 

Oh, let thy spirit stay with me, sweet 

vale ! 



SHERMAN 

Glory and honor and fame and everlasting 

laudation 
For our captains who loved not war, but 

fought for the life of the nation ; 
Who knew that, in all the land, one slave 

meant strife, not peace; 
Who fought for freedom, not glory; made 

war that war might cease. 

Glory and honor and fame; the beating of 
muffled drums; 

The wailing funeral dirge, as the flag- 
wrapped coffin comes; 

Fame and honor and glory; and joy for a 
noble soul. 

For a full and splendid life, and laurelled 
rest at the goal. 

Glory and honor and fame; the pomp that 
a soldier prizes; 

The league-long waving line as the march- 
ing falls and rises; 

Rumbling of caissons and guns ; the clatter 
of horses' feet. 

And a million awe-struck faces far down 
the waiting street. 

But better than martial woe, and the pa- 
geant of civic sorrow; 

Better than praise of to-day, or the statue 
we build to-morrow ; 

Better than honor and glory, and history's 
iron pen. 

Was the thought of duty done and the love 
of his fellow-men. 



HAST THOU HEARD THE 
NIGHTINGALE ? 

Yes, I have heard the nightingale. 
As in dark woods I wandered, 
And dreamed and pondered, 
A voice passed by all fire 
And passion and desire; 



RICHARD WATSON GILDER 



477 



I rather felt than heard 


Her little waving hands were like 


The soug of that lone bird: 


Birds' wings that beat the bars. 


Yes, I have heard the nightingale. 






And when those waving hands were still, — ■■ 


Yes, I have heard the nightingale. 


Her soul had fled away, — 


I heard it, and I followed; 


The music faded from the air, 


The warm night swallowed 


The color from the day. 


This soul and body of mine, 




As burning thirst takes wine. 




While on and on I pressed 


AH, BE NOT FALSE 


Close to that singing breast: 




Yes, I have heard the nightingale. 


Ah, be not false, sweet Splendor ! 




Be true, be good; 


Yes, I have heard the nightingale. 


Be wise as thou art tender; 


Well doth each throbbing ember 


Be all that Beauty should. 


The flame remember; 




And I, how quick that sound 


Not lightly be thy citadel subdued; 


Turned drops from a deep wound ! 


Not ignobly, not untimely. 


How this heart was the thorn 


Take praise in solemn mood; 


Which pierced that breast forlorn ! 


Take love sublimely. 


Yes, I have heard the nightingale. 






OF ONE WHO NEITHER SEES 


THE CELLO 


NOR HEARSi 


When late I heard the trembling cello 


She lives in light, not shadow ; 


play, 


Not silence, but the sound 


In every face I read sad memories 


Which thrills the stars of heaven 


That from dark, secret chambers where 


And trembles from the ground. 


they lay 




Rose, and looked forth from melancholy 


She breathes a finer ether. 


eyes. 


Beholds a keener sun ; 


So every mournful thought found there 


In her supernal being 


a tone 


Music and light are one. 


To match despondence : sorrow knew its 




mate; 


Unknown the subtle senses 


111 fortune sighed, and mute despair made 


That lead her through the day ; 


moan ; 


Love, light, and song and color 


And one deep chord gave answer, " Late, 


Come by another way. 


— too late." 




Then ceased the quivering strain, and swift 


Sight brings she to the seeing, 


returned 


New song to those that hear; 


Into its depths the secret of each heart; 


Her braver spirit sounding 


Each face took on its mask, where lately 


Where mortals fail and fear. 


burned 




A spirit charmed to sight by music's art ; 


She at the heart of being 


But unto one who caught that inner flame 


Serene and glad doth dwell; 


No face of all can ever seem the same. 


Spirit with scarce a veil of flesh; 




A soul made visible. 


A CHILD 


Or is it only a lovely girl. 




With flowers at her maiden breast ? 


Her voice was like the song of birds ; 


— Helen, here is a book of song 


Her eyes were like the stars; 


From the poet who loves you best. 



1 Helen Keller. 



478 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



THE BIRDS OF BETHLEHEM 

I HEARD the bells of Bethlehem ring — 
Their voice was sweeter than the priests' ; 

I heard the birds of Bethlehem sing 
Unbidden in the churchly feasts. 

They clung and sung on the swinging chain 
High in the dim and incensed air; 

The priests, with repetitions vain, 
Chanted a never-ending prayer. 

So bell and bird and priest I heard. 
But voice of bird was most to me; 

It had no ritual, no word, 

And yet it sounded true and free. 

I thought Child Jesus, were he there, 
Would like the singing birds the best, 

And clutch his little hands in air 
And smile upon his mother's breast. 
Bethlehem, Holy Week, 1896. 



NOEL 

Star-dust and vaporous light, — 
The mist of worlds unborn, — 

A shuddering in the awful night 
Of winds that bring the morn. 

Now comes the dawn: the circling earth; 

Creatures that fly and crawl; 
And Man, that last, imperial birth; 

And Christ, the flower of all. 



THE SONG OF A HEATHEN 

(sojourning in GALILEE, A. D. 32) 

If Jesus Christ is a man, — 

And only a man, — I say 
That of all mankind I cleave to him, 

And to him will I cleave alway. 

If Jesus Christ is a God, — 

And the only God, — I swear 
I will follow Him through heaven and 
hell, 

The earth, the sea, and the air ! 



THE HEROIC AGE 

He speaks not well who doth his time de- 
plore, 
Naming it new and little and obscure. 
Ignoble and unfit for lofty deeds. 
All times were modern in the time of them, 
And this no more than others. Do thy part 
Here in the living day, as did the great 
Who made old days immortal ! So shall 

men. 
Gazing long back to this far-looming hour, 
Say: " Then the time when men were truly. 

men; 
Though wars grew less, their spirits met 

the test 
Of new conditions ; conquering civic wrong ; 
Saving the state anew by virtuous lives; 
Guarding the country's honor as their own, 
And their own as their country's and their 

sons'; 
Defying leagued fraud with single truth; 
Not fearing loss, and daring to be pure. 
When error through the land raged like a 

pest. 
They calmed the madness caught from 

mind to mind 
By wisdom drawn from eld, and counsel 

sane ; 
And as the martyrs of the ancient world 
Gave Death for man, so nobly gave they 

Life: 
Those the great days, and that the heroic 

age." 
Athens, 1896. 



AFTER-SONG 

Through love to light ! Oh wonderful 

the way 
That leads from darkness to the perfect 

day ! 
From darkness and from sorrow of the 

night 
To morning that comes singing o'er the 

sea. 
Through love to light ! Through light, O 

God, to thee. 
Who art the love of love, the eternal light 

of light ! 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



479 



dEtituarti iBiilarti Wnt^on 



ABSOLUTION 



Priest of God, unto thee I come; 
Day doth dawn, though the mist lies deep. 
Trembling with dread from my home I fled; 
I have slain a man in the land of sleep. 

Him I met in a region dim, 
Where ever the sun shines faint and low, 
Where the moon is far as a tiny star. 
And rivers speed with a noiseless flow. 

In the tangled wood he was lying hid ; 
But I saw him lurking, and then I knew 
'T was the soul of the one since time begun 
That had made me false when I would be 
true. 

My heart was hot and my anger fierce; 
I knew in my dreaming his life I sought. 
But with all my power, as I saw him cower, 
I willed the deed that my hands have 
wrought. 

Ask me not if his name I know. 

For all the rest of my dream is hid ; 

I only remember the "river's flow. 

And the dim gray light and the deed I did. 

But demons of death and hate that wait 
For the soul that sins, my soul pursue. 
And my hands are red with the blood of 

the dead, 
And ever they cry the long hours through: 

"Murderer, though in dreams and sleep. 
Done is the deed with thy soul's consent. 
And there is no hope for Heaven's gate to 

ope, 
Nor will men have pity nor God relent." 



Son, no sin on thy soul doth rest; 
Blood shows not on thy trembling hands. 
Unto thee can cling no awful thing; 
Thy soul was roaming in unreal lauds. 

'T was but a dream when all things seem 
Mingled with fantasy strange and wild, 
And the soul of man, do the worst it can, 
Is sinless in slumber and undefiled. 



For life is the life of the waking day; 

Time enough in it for crime and sin. 

But we sleep in the hours, like the sinless 
flowers 

That heed not the world and its madden- 
ing din. 

Ill 

Out from the living, O God, I creep, 
Naked and chill, to thy silent land; 
Friend have I none, I stand alone, 
To wait my doom at thy mighty hand. 

Naked and chill, though wrapped in sin, 
In the dark and cold with only thee, 
Nor glint of a star that 's faint and far. 
To light the night of thy world for me. 

Whither, O God, wilt thou send the soul 
Thou hast planted on earth and plucked 

away ? 
For it grew, with the weeds of its evil 

deeds. 
In the wood and fen, in the mire and clay. 



Child of the earth, thou fragile flower 
Bending down to the wind that blew, 
Life shall seem but an evil dream ; 
Wake to the life that is real and true. 

Cease thy dreaming, the world forget; 
Lulled be the pain I made thee bear. 
Sin and shame are only the name 
Of the lesson I taught thee in sorrow 
there. 

Thou hast learned how the soul of man 
Lifts, through error, its heart on high, 
Up from the sin I placed it in, 
To the bright, clear light in the starry 

sky- 
Ages hence, when thy world and stars 
Fade away in the mist they are. 
Thou shalt weep, and in pity creep 
Back to the life of some lonely star. 

Love shall well in thy heart, and tears 
Fall for the sorrows thou couldst not know 
But for the years of sins and fears 
Spent in the dream of thy life below. 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Sjofjn 25ople €>'^ti\\^ 



FROM "WENDELL PHILLIPS" 

What shall we mourn ? For the prostrate 

tree that sheltered the young green 

wood ? 
For the fallen cliflf that fronted the sea, and 

guarded the fields from the flood ? 
For the eagle that died in the tempest, afar 

from its eyrie's brood ? 

Nay, not for these shall we weep; for the 

silver cord must be worn, 
And the golden fillet shrink back at last, 

and the dust to its earth return ; 
And tears are never for those who die with 

their face to the duty done; 
But we mourn for the fledglings left on the 

waste, and the fields where the wild 

waves run. 

From the midst of the flock he defended, 

the brave one has gone to his rest; 
And the tears of the poor he befriended 

their wealth of affliction attest. 
From the midst of the people is stricken a 

symbol they daily saw. 
Set over against the law books, of a Higher 

than human Law; 
For his life was a ceaseless protest, and his 

voice was a prophet's cry 
To be true to the Truth and faithful, though 

the world were arrayed for the Lie. 

From the hearing of those who hated, a 

threatening voice has past; 
But the lives of those who believe and die 

are not blown like a leaf on the blast. 
A sower of infinite seed was he, a woodman 

that hewed toward the light, 
Who dared to be traitor to Union when 

Union was traitor to Right ! 



AT BEST 

The faithful helm commands the keel, 
From port to port fair breezes blow; 

But the ship must sail the convex sea, 
Nor may she straighter go. 

So, man tb man; in fair accord, 

' On thought and will the winds may wait; 



But the world will bend the passing word, 
Though its shortest course be straight. 

From soul to soul the shortest line 

At best will bended be: 
The ship that holds the straightest course 

Still sails the convex sea. 



AN ART MASTER 

He gathered cherry-stones, and carved 
them quaintly 
Into fine semblances of flies and flowers ; 
With subtle skill, he even imaged faintly 
The forms of tiny maids and ivied 
towers. 

His little blocks he loved to file and pol- 
ish; 
And ampler means he asked not, but 
despised. 
All art but cherry-stones he would abolish, 
For then his genius would be rightly 
prized. 

For such rude hands as dealt with wrongs 
and passions. 
And throbbing hearts, he had a pitying 
smile ; 
Serene his way through surging years and 
fashions. 
While Heaven gave him his cherry- 
stones and file ! 



A SAVAGE 

Dixon, a Choctaw, twenty years of age, 

Had killed a miner in a Leadville brawl ; 
Tried and condemned, the rough-beards 
curb their rage, 
And watch him stride in freedom from 
the hall. 

" Return on Friday, to he shot to death ! " 
So ran the sentence, — it was Monday 
night. 
The dead man's comrades drew a well- 
pleased breath ; 
Then all night long the gambling-dens 
were bright. 



BOYLE O'REILLY — ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD 481 



The days sped slowly ; but the Friday 
came, 
And flocked the miners to thp shooting- 
ground ; 
They chose six riflemen of deadly aim, 
And with low voices sat and lounged 
around. 

« He will not come." " He 's not a fool." 
" The men 
Who set the savage free must face the 
blame." 
A Choctaw brave smiled bitterly, and 
then 
Smiled proudly, with raised head, as 
Dixon came. 

Silent and stern, a woman at his heels, 
He motions to the brave, who stays her 
tread. 
Next minute flame the guns, — the woman 
reels 
And drops without a moan: Dixon is 
dead. 



A WHITE ROSE 

The red rose whispers of passion, 
And the white rose breathes of love; 

Oh, the red rose is a falcon, 
And the white rose is a dove. 

But I send you a cream-white rosebud 
With a flush on its petal tips; 

For the love that is purest and sweetest 
Has a kiss of desire on the lips. 



MAYFLOWER 

I'^UNDER our thanks to her — guns, hearts, 
and lips ! 
Cheer from the ranks to her. 



Shout from the banks to her — 
Mayflower ! Foremost and best of our 
ships. 

Mayflower ! Twice in the national story 
Thy dear name in letters of gold — 
Woven in texture that never grows old — 

Winning a home and winning glory ! 

Sailing the years to us, welcomed for aye; 

Cherished for centuries, dearest to-day. 

Every heart throbs for her, every flag 
dips — 

Mayflower ! First and last, best of our 
ships. 

White as a seagull, she swept the long pas- 
sage. 
True as the homing-bird flies with its mes- 



Love her ? O, richer than silk every sail 

of her. 
Trust her ? More precious than gold every 

nail of her. 
Write we down faithfully every man's part 

in her; 
Greet we all gratefully every true heart in 

her. 
More than a name to us, sailing the fleetest, 
Symbol of that which is purest and sweetest: 
More than a keel to us, steering the 

straightest. 
Emblem of that which is freest and greatest: 
More than a dove-rbosomed sail to the 

windward. 
Flame passing on while the night-clouds 

fly hindward. 
Kiss every plank of her ! None shall take 

rank of her ; 
Frontward or weatherward, none can 

eclipse. 
Thunder our thanks to her ! Cheer from 

the banks to her ! 
Mayflower ! Foremost and best of our 

ships ! 



4^Ji5abet8 Stuart f fjeljj^ Wath 



THE LOST COLORS 

Frowning, the mountain stronghold stood, 
Whose front no mortal could assail ; 
For more than twice three hundred years 
The terror of the Indian vale. 



By blood and fire the robber band 
Answered the helpless village wail. 

Hot was his heart and cool his thought. 
When Napier from his Englishmen 
Up to the bandits' rampart glanced. 



482 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



And down upon his ranks again. 
Summoned to dare a deed like that, 
Which of them all would answer then ? 

What sullen regiment is this 
That lifts its eyes to dread Cutehee ? 
Abased, its standard bears no flag. 
For thus the punishment shall be 
That England metes to Englishmea 
Who shame her once by mutiny. 

From out the disgraced Sixty-Fourth 
There stepped a hundred men of might. 
Cried Napier: " Now prove to me 
I read my soldiers' hearts aright ! 
Form ! Forward ! Charge, my volunteers ! 
Your colors are on yonder height ! " 

So sad is shame, so wise is trust ! 
The challenge echoed bugle-clear. 
Like fire along the Sixty-Fourth 
From rank to file rang cheer on cheer. 
In death and glory up the pass 
They fought for all to brave men dear. 

Old is the tale, but read anew 

In every warring human heart. 

What rebel hours, what coward shame, 

Upon the aching memory start ! 

To find the ideal forfeited, 

— What tears can teach the holy art ? 

Thou great Commander ! leading on 

Through weakest darkness to strong light; 

By any anguish, give us back 

Our life's young standard, pure and bright. 

O fair, lost Colors of the soul ! 

For your sake storm we any height. 



THE ROOM'S WIDTH 

I THINK if I should cross the room. 

Far as fear; 
Should stand beside you like a thought ■ 

Touch you, dear, 

Like a fancy, — to your sad heart 

It would seem 
That my vision passed and prayed you, 

Or my dream. 



Then you would look with lonely eyes — 

Lift your head — 
And you would stir, and sigh, and say, 

" She is dead." 

Baffled by death and love, I lean 

Through the gloom. 
O Lord of life ! am I forbid 

To cross the room ? 

GLOUCESTER HARBOR 

One shadow glides from the dumb shore, 
And one from every silent sail. 
One cloud the averted heavens wear, 
A soft mask, thin and frail. 

Oh, silver is the lessening rain, 
And yellow was the weary drouth. 
The reef her warning finger puts 
Upon the harbor's mouth. 

Her thin, wan finger, stiff and stark, 
She holds by night, she holds by day. 
Ask, if you will: no answer makes 
The sombre, guarded bay. 

The fleet, with idle canvas hung. 
Like a brute life, sleeps patiently. 
The headlights hod across the cliff, 
The fog blows out to sea. 

There is no color on the tide. 

No color on the helpless sky; 

Across the beach — a safe, small sound — 

The grass-hid crickets cry. 

And through the dusk I hear the keels 
Of home-bound boats grate low and sweet, 
O happy lights ! O watching eyes ! 
Leap out the sound to greet. 

O^tender arms that meet and clasp ! 
Gather and cherish while ye may. 
The morrow knoweth God. Ye know 
Your own are yours to-day. 

Forever from the Gloucester winds 
The cries of hungry children start. 
There breaks in every Gloucester wave 
A widowed woman's heart. 



FRANCIS HOWARD WILLIAMS — MAURICE THOMPSON 483 



f ranttis? ipoixiatti IBilliamiS 



ELECTRA 

My Love too stately is to be but fair, 
Too fair she is for naught but stateliness; 
She bids me Nay, and yet a silent Yes 
Dwells in the dusk her shadowy eyelids 

wear. 
My Love's step makes a music in the air, 
Touching the sense with a divine caress. 
And all the rapture of the dawn doth bless 
The light that leaps to life across her hair. 
Her mouth is just the love-couch for a 

song, 
And mid the fragrance of its riven flowers 
Low laughter breaks and trembles close to 

tears 
Mingled of mirth and melody, as a throng 
Of bird notes wakes to joy the drowsy 

hours 
And weaves delight through all the griev- 
ing years. 



WALT WHITMAN 

Darkness and death ? Nay, Pioneer, for 

thee 
The day of deeper vision has begun; 
There is no darkness for the central sun 
Nor any death for immortality. 
At last the song of all fair songs that be. 
At last the guerdon of a race well run. 
The upswelling joy to know the victory 

won, 
The river's rapture when it finds the sea. 
Ah, thou art wrought in an heroic mould. 
The modern man upon whose brow yet 

stays 
A gleam of glory from the age of gold, — 



A diadem which all the gods have kissed. 
Hail and farewell ! flower of the antique 

days,— 
Democracy's divine protagonist. 

March 26, 1892. 



SONG 

A BIRD in my bower 
Sat calling, a-calling; 
A bird answered low from the garden afar. 
His note came with power. 
While falling, a-falling. 
Her note quivered faint as the light of a 
star. 
" I am Life ! I am Life ! " 
From the bower a-ringing. 
Trilled forth a mad melody, soaring above; 
" I am Love ! I am Love ! " 
From the garden a-singing. 
Came soft as a dream, and the echoes sang 
"Love." 

They joined, and together 
Fast flying, a-flying, 
Were lost to my gaze in the arch of the 
sky. 
The wind through the heather 
Is sighing, a-sighing ; 
Ah ! how should it ever do other than sigh ? 
Where art thou, where art thou, 
Life, flying, a-flying ? 
Where art thou, O Love, sweetest child of 
the dawn ? 
The song in the meadow 
Is dying, a-dying; 
My heart groweth heavy, and whispereth 
— " Gone." 



a^aunce €{jom]^jGfon 



THE LION'S CUB 

The whelp that nipped its mother's dug in 

turning from her breast. 
And smacked its lusty lips and built its 

own lair in the West, 



Has stretched its limbs and looked about 
and roared across the sea: 

" Oh, mother, I did bite thee hard, but still 
thou lovest me ! " 



484 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



She lifts her head and listens, as waking 

from a dream, 
Her great jaw set, her claws outspread, her 

lion eyes agleam; 
The voice is deep as thunder on the far 

horizon rim, 
And up the mother spoke and said: " It 

can be none but him ! " 

Cried England to America: "My ancient 

' love abides, 

And the old Trafalgar courage still upon 

the ocean rides." 
America to Euglaud spake : " The God of 

Liberty 
Goes with us marching up the land and 

sailing down the sea." 

And the twain are joined for hunting, — 
let all the packs beware, 

The tiger's kith, the panther's kin, the race- 
hordes of the bear. 

They two step forth together, God's hand 
has struck the hour. 

All pathways lead to freedom, each foot- 
step broadens power. 

The world is still in dull amaze, agape and 

dazed to hear; 
There is a rustling of the thrones, uneasy 

far and near. 
King leaning unto king, and on Oppression's 

hateful lips 
A pallor as the wind brings in the booming 

of the ships. 

And who shall cower, who recoil, or choose 

the craven's tack. 
And strain the law (by heroes made) to 

hold his country back ? 
Ah, who ? Let children lisp his shame 

and women cry him down 
What time our glorious banner waves o'er 

stormed tower and town. 

The star is up, the star of splendor, never 

to set or wane; 
The flag leads on, the flag of glory, never 

to turn again; 
And where it goes we cheer and follow, no 

man of us will fail; 
We all are where our armies camp and 

where our navies sail. 



World-conquering mother, hard we bit in 

parting from thy breast; 
Yet still we smack our lusty lips and love 

thy milk the best; 
For the blood our mother gave us is the 

true imperial strain; 
She bore one cub, one only, but it wears 

the lion's mane ! 

AN EARLY BLUEBIRD 

Leap to the highest height of spring, 

And trUl thy sweetest note, 
Bird of the heavenly plumes and twinkling 
wing 

And silver-toned throat ! 

Sing, while the maple's deepest root 

Thrills with a pulse of fire 
That lights its buds. Blow, blow thy ten- 
der flute, 

Thy reed of rich desire ! 

Breathe in thy syrinx Freedom's breath, 

Quaver the fresh and true. 
Dispel this lingering wintry mist of death 

And charm the world anew ! 

Thou first sky-dipped spring-bud of song. 

Whose heavenly ecstasy 
Foretells the May while yet March winds 
are strong, 

Fresh faith appears with thee ! 

How sweet, how magically rich. 
Through filmy splendor blown. 

Thy hopeful voice set to the promise-pitch 
Of melody yet unknown ! 

O land of mine (where hope can grow 

And send a deeper root 
With every spring), hear, heed the free 
bird blow 

Hope's charmed flute ! 

Ah ! who will hear, and who will care, 

And who will heed thy song. 
As prophecy, as hope, as promise rare, 

Budding to bloom ere long ? 

From swelling bulbs and sprouting seed, 

Sweet sap and fragrant dew. 
And human hearts, grown doubly warm at 
need. 

Leaps answer strong and true: 



MAURICE THOMPSON 



485 



We see, we hear (thou liberty-loving thing, 
That down spring winds doth float), 

The promise of thine empyrean wing, 
The hope that floods thy throat ! 



WRITTEN ON A FLY-LEAF OF 
THEOCRITUS 

Those were good times, in olden days, 
Of which the poet has his dreams, 

When gods beset the woodland ways, 
And lay in wait by all the streams. 

One could be sure of something then 
Severely simple, simply grand, 

Or keenly, subtly sweet, as when 
Venus and Love went hand in hand. 

Now I would give (such is my need) 
All the world's store of rhythm and 
rhyme 

To see Pan fluting on a reed 

And with his goat-hoof keeping time ! 



A FLIGHT SHOT 

We were twin brothers, tall and hale, 
Glad wanderers over hill and dale. 

We stood within the twilight shade 
Of pines that rimmed a Southern glade. 

He said: " Let 's settle, if we can, 
Which of us is the stronger man. 

" We '11 try a flight shot, high and good, 
Across the green glade toward the wood." 

And so we bent in sheer delight 
Our old yew bows with all our might. 

Our long keen shafts, drawn to the head, 
Were poised a moment ere they sped. 

As we leaned back a breath of air 
Mingled the brown locks of our hair. 

We loosed. As one our bow-cords rang, 
As one away our arrows sprang. 

Away they sprang; the wind of June 
Thrilled to their softly whistled tuue. 



We watched their flight, and saw tliem strike 
Deep in the ground slantwise alike. 

So far away that they might pass 

For two thin straws of broom-sedge grass ! 

Then arm in arm we doubting went 
To find whose shaft was farthest sent. 

Each fearing in his loving heart 
That brother's shaft had fallen short. 

But who could tell by such a plan 
Which of us was the stronger man ? 

There at the margin of the wood, 
Side by side our arrows stood, 

Their red cock-feathers wing and wing, 
Their amber nocks still quivering. 

Their points deep-planted where they fell 
An inch apart and parallel ! 

We clasped each other's hands ; said he, 
" Twin champions of the world are we ! " 



A CREOLE SLAVE-SONG 

(A/i, lo zo-zo chati' dan' branche) 

What bird is that, with voice so sweet. 

Sings to the sun from yonder tree ? 
What girl is that so slim and fleet, 
Comes through the cane her love to meet ? 
Foil zo-zo, sing merrily. 
The pretty girl she comes to me ! 

What wind is that upon the cane ? 

What perfume from a far-off rose 
Fills me with dreams ? What strange, 

vague pain 
Stirs in my heart ? What longing vain 

Is this that through my bosom goes ? 

south wind, perfume and desire, 

You kiss, you soothe, you burn like fire ! 

Ah, no ! Ah, no ! It is a cheat. 

There is no bird; my love comes not; 
The wind chills me from head to feet, 
And oh, it brings no perfume sweet. 

My slender girl the white man bought, 
And took her far across the bay — 

1 cannot cut the cane to-day 1 



486 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD— DIVISION II 



I cannot cut the cane to-day — 

zo-zo, moquer, come and sing ! 

warm wind, through the cane-field stray, 
Wave the long moss so soft and gray ! 

1 have no heart for anything; 

But life was heaven and work was play 
When my love loved me every day ! 

White man, how I worked for you 

When I was young and blithe and strong ! 

The earth was green, the sky was blue, 

My love's eyes were as bright as dew; 
And life was like the zo-zo^s song ! 

But you — you sold my love away — 

1 cannot cut the cane to-day ! 

I did not dream a slave could be 
A man, and right a grievous wrong. 

I writhed and bore your cruelty; 

I felt the soul go out of me; 
And yet, I was so lion-strong 

I could have torn your heart away — 

I cannot cut the cane to-day ! 

Freedom ! I feel it when too late, 
Like spring wind on a blasted tree, 

A waft of mockery and hate ! 

Bring back my chains, O cruel Fate ! 
Bring youth and slavery back to me; 

Bring back the lash, the hound, the pain, 

So that my own love come again ! 

But hark ! A gentle voice afar 

Calls me to go, I know not where — 
Yes, past the sun and past the star, 



Into God's land. A golden car 

And milk-white horses — she is there ! 
So sweet — I dream — I float away — 
I cannot cut the cane to-day ! 



A PROPHECY 
(from " Lincoln's grave ") 

Old soldiers true, ah, them all men can 

trust, 
Who fought, with conscience clear, on either 

side; 
Who bearded Death and thought their 

cause was just; 
Their stainless honor cannot be denied; 
All patriots they beyond the farthest doubt; 
Ring it and sing it up and down the laud. 
And let no voice dare answer it with sneers, 

Or shut its meaning out; 
Ring it and sing it, we go hand in hand. 
Old infantry, old cavalry, old cannoneers. 

And if Virginia's vales shall ring again 
To battle-yell of Moseby or Mahone, 
If Wilder's wild brigade or Morgan's men 
Once more wheel into line ; or all alone 
A Sheridan shall ride, a Cleburne fall, — 
There will not be two flags above them fiy- 

But both in one, welded in that pure flame 

Upflaring in us all, 
When kindred unto kindred, loudly cry- 
ing, 
Rally and cheer in freedom's holy name ! 



CHANGELINGS IN THE DARK 



The ghosts of flowers went sailing 
Through the dreamy autumn air, — 
The gossamer wiugs of the milkweed brown, 
And the sheeny silk of the thistle-down; 
But there was no bewailing, 
And never a hint of despair. 

From the mountain-ash was swinging 

A gray, deserted nest; 
Scarlet berries where eggs had been; 
Softly the flower- wraiths floated in: 

And the brook and breeze were singing 

When the sun sank down in the west. 



The fields were silent, and the woodland 
drear. 
The moon had set, and clouds hid all 
the stars; 
And blindly, when a footfall met my ear, 
I reached across the bars. 

And swift as thought this hand was clasped 
in thine. 
Though darkness hung around us and 
above ; 
Not guided by uncertain fate to mine, 
But by the law of love. 



MARY THACHER HIGGINSON — JOHN HENRY BONER 487 



I know not which of us may first go hence 
And leave the other to be brave alone, 

Unable to dispel the shadows dense 
That veil the life unknown; 

But if I linger last, and stretch once more 
A longing hand when fades this earthly 
day, 

Again it will be grasped by thine, before 
My steps can lose the way. 



GHOST-FLOWERS 
(monotropa uniflora) 

In shining groups, each stem a pearly 

ray, 
Weird flecks of light within the shadowed 

wood. 
They dwell aloof, a spotless sisterhood. 
No Angelas, except the wild bird's lay. 
Awakes these forest nuns; yet night and 

day 
Their heads are bent, as if in prayerful 

mood. 
A touch will mar their snow, and tempests 

rude 
Defile; but in the mist fresh blossoms stray 
From spirit-gardens just beyond our ken. 



Each year we seek their virgin haunts, to 

look 
Upon new loveliness, and watch again 
Their shy devotions near the singing brook; 
Then, mingling in the dizzy stir of men. 
Forget the vows made in that cloistered 

nook. 



INHERITANCE 

We wondered why he always turned aside 
When mirth and gladness filled the brim- 
ming days : 
Who else so fit as he for pleasure's ways ? 
Men thought him frozen by a selfish pride; 
But that his voice was music none denied. 
Or that his smile was like the sun's warm 

rays. 
One day upon the sands he spoke in praise 
Of swimmers who were buffeting the tide: 
" The swelling waves of life they dare to 

meet. 
I may not plunge where others safely go, — 
Unbidden longings in my pulses beat." 
O blind and thoughtless world ! you little 

know 
That ever round this hero's steadfast feet 
Surges and tugs the dreaded undertow. 



3(ol)n ]^cnrp 23oncr 



POE'S COTTAGE AT FORDHAM 

Here lived the soul enchanted 

By melody of song; 
Here dwelt the spirit haunted 

By a demoniac throng; 
Here sang the lips elated; 
Here grief and death were sated; 
Here loved and here unmated 

Was he, so frail, so strong. 

Here wintry winds and cheerless 

The dying firelight blew, 
While he whose song was peerless 

Dreamed the drear midnight through, 
And from dull embers chilling 
Crept shadows darkly filling 
The silent place, and thrilling 

His fancy as they grew. 



Here, with brow bared to heaven, 

In starry night he stood. 
With the lost star of seven 

Feeling sad brotherhood. 
Here in the sobbing showers 
Of dark autumnal hours 
He heard suspected powers 

Shriek through the stormy wood. 

From visions of Apollo 

And of Astarte's bliss. 
He gazed into the hollow 

And hopeless vale of Dis, 
And though earth were surrounded 
By heaven, it still was mounded 
With graves. His soul had sounded 

The dolorous abyss. 

Proud, mad, but not defiant. 
He touched at heaven and hell. 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Fate found a rare soul pliant 
And rung her changes well. 
Alternately his lyre, 
Stranded with strings of fire, 
Led earth's most happy choir, 
Or flashed with Israfel. 

No singer of old story 

Luting accustomed lays, 
No harper for new glory, 

No mendicant for praise, 
He struck high chords and splendid, 
Wherein were fiercely hlended 
Tones that unfinished ended 

With his unfinished days. 

Here through this lowly portal. 

Made sacred by his name, 
Unheralded immortal 

The mortal went and came. 
And fate that then denied him, 
And envy that decried him, 
And malice that belied him, 
Have cenotaphed his fame. 



REMEMBRANCE 

I THINK that we retain of our dead friends 
And absent ones no general portraiture ; 
That perfect memory does not long endure, 
But fades and fades until our own life ends. 
Unconsciousl}', forgetfulness attends 
That grief for which there is no other cure, 
But leaves of each lost one some record 

sure, — 
A look, an act, a tone, — something that 

lends 
Relief and consolation, not regret. 
Even that poor mother mourning her dead 

child. 
Whose agonizing eyes with tears are wet, 
Wliose bleeding heart cannot be reconciled 
Unto the grave's embrace, — even she shall 

yet 
Remember only when her babe first smiled. 



WE WALKED AMONG THE 
WHISPERING PINES 

It was a still autumnal day — 

So sadly still and strangely bright — ■ 

The hectic glow of quick decay 

Tinged everything with lovely light. 



It warmly touched the fragrant air 
And fields of corn and crumbling vines 

Along the golden Yadkin, where 

We walked among the whispering pines, 

Alas, that tender hectic glow 

Shone in her gentle, pallid face. 
And none save God in heaven could 
know 

My agony to see its trace — 
To watch those fatal roses bloom 

Upon her cheeks — red, cruel signs — 
But all of love, not of the tomb. 

We spoke among the whispering pines. 

Ah, fatal roses — never yet 

Have they deceived. She drooped and 
died. 
We parted and we never met 

Again ; but often at my side 
An angel walks, — her step I know, — 

A viewless arm my neck entwines. 
O angel love, so years ago 

We walked among the whispering pines. 



THE LIGHT'OOD FIRE 

When wintry days are dark and drear 

And all the forest ways grow still. 
When gray snow-laden clouds appear 

Along the bleak horizon hill. 
When cattle all are snugly penned 

And sheep go huddling close together, 
When steady streams of smoke ascend 
From farm-house chimneys, — in such 
weather 
Give me old Carolina's own, 
A great log house, a great hearth- 
stone, 
A cheering pipe of cob or briar. 
And a red, leaping light'ood fire. 

When dreary day draws to a close 

And all the silent land is dark. 
When Boreas down the chimney blows 

And sparks fly from the crackling bark, 
When limbs are bent with snow or sleet 

And owls hoot from the hollow tree, 
With hounds asleep about your feet. 
Then is the time for reverie. 
Give me old Carolina's own, 
A hospitable wide hearthstone, 
A cheering pipe of cob or briar, 
And a red, rousing light'ood fire. 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



489 



3[ofjn 23am^tcr €a6fi 



EVOLUTION 

Out of the dusk a shadow, 

Then, a spark; 
Out of the cloud a silence, 

Then, a lark; 
Out of the heart a rapture, 

Then, a pain; 
Out of the dead, cold ashes, 

Life again. 

THE WATER-LILY 

Whence, O fragrant form of light. 
Hast thou drifted through the night. 
Swanlike, to a leafy nest. 
On the restless waves, at rest ? 

Art thou from the snowy zone 
Of a mountain-summit blown, 
Or the blossom of a dream, 
Fashioned in the foamy stream ? 

Nay, — methinks the maiden moon. 
When the daylight came too soon, 
Fleeting from her bath to hide, 
Left her garment in the tide. 

TO SHELLEY 

At Shelley's birth. 
The Lark, dawn-spirit, with an anthem 
loud 
Rose from the dusky earth 
To tell it to the Cloud, 
That, like a flower night-folded in the 
gloom. 
Burst into morning bloom. 

At Shelley's death. 
The Sea, that deemed him an immortal, 
saw 

A god's extinguished breath, 

And landward, as in awe. 
Upbore him to the altar whence he came. 

And the rekindling flame. 

THE SISTERS 

The waves forever move; 
The hills forever rest: 



Yet each the heavens approve. 
And Love alike hath blessed 
A Martha's household care, 
A Mary's cloistered prayer. 



ANONYMOUS 

Anonymous — nor needs a name 
To tell the secret whence the flame. 
With light, and warmth, and incensBj 

came 
A new creation to proclaim. 

So was it when. His labor done, 
God saw His work, and smiled thereon: 
His glory in the picture shone. 
But name upon the canvas, none. 



CLOVER 

Little masters, hat in hand 
Let me in your presence stand, 
Till your silence solve for me 
This your threefold mystery. 

Tell me — for I long to know — 
How, in darkness there below. 
Was your fairy fabric spun, 
Spread and fashioned, tbree in one. 

Did your gossips gold and blue, 
Sky and Sunshine, choose for you, 
Ere your triple forms were seen, 
Suited liveries of green ? 

Can ye, — if ye dwelt indeed 
Captives of a prison seed, — 
Like the Genie, once again 
Get you back into the grain ? 

Little masters, may I stand 
In your presence, hat in hand. 
Waiting till you solve for me 
This your threefold mystery ? 

THE DEPARTED 

They cannot wholly pass away, 
How far soe'er above; 



49° 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION JI 



Nor we, the lingerers, wholly stay- 
Apart from those we love: 

For spirits in eternity, 
As shadows in the sun, 

Reach backward into Time, as we, 
Like lifted clouds, reach on. 



INDIAN SUMMER 

No more the battle or the chase 

The phantom tribes pursue. 
But each in its accustomed place 

The Autumn hails anew: 
And still from solemn councils set 

On every hill and plain. 
The smoke of many a calumet 

Ascends to heaven again. 



THE DRUID 

Godlike beneath his grave divinities, 
The last of all their worshippers, he stood. 
The shadows of a vanished multitude 
Enwound him, and their voices in the 

breeze 
Made murmur, while the meditative trees 
Reared of their strong fraternal branches 

rude 
A temple meet for prayer. What blos- 
soms strewed 
The path between Life's morning hours 

and these ? 
What lay beyond the darkness ? He alone 
The sunshine and the shadow and the dew 
Had shared alike with leaf, and flower, 

and stem: 
Their life had been his lesson; and from 

them 
A dream of immortality he drew. 
As in their fate foreshadowing his own. 



THE CHILD 

AT BETHLEHEM 



Long, long before the Babe could speak, 
When he would kiss his mother's cheek 
And to her bosom press, 



The brightest angels standing near 

Would turn away to hide a tear — 

For they are motherless. 



Where were ye, Birds, that bless His name, 
When wingless to the world He came. 
And wordless, though Himself the Word 
That made the blossom and the bird ? 



TO HIS MOTHER 

He brought a Lily white. 
That bowed its fragrant head 
And blushed a rosy red 
Before her fairer light. 

He brought a Rose; and, lo, 
The crimson blossom saw 
Her beauty, and in awe 
Became as white as snow. 



QUATRAINS 

THE BUBBLE 

Why should I stay ? Nor seed nor fruit 
have I. 
But, sprung at once to beauty's perfect 

round. 
Nor loss, nor gain, nor change in me is 
found, — 
A life — complete in death — complete to 
die. 

BECALMED 

The bar is crossed; but Death — the pilot 
— stands 
In seeming doubt before the tranquil 
deep; 
The fathom-line still trembling in his hands, 
As when upon the treacherous shoals of 
sleep. 

FAME 

Their noonday never knows 
What names immortal are: 

'T is night alone that shows 
How star surpasseth star. 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



491 



df>ara|j Ctjaunccp IBooI^cp 



(" SUSAN COOLIDGE ") 



HELEN 



The autumn seems to cry for thee, 
Best lover of the autumn days ! 

Each scarlet-tipped and wine-red tree, 
Each russet branch and branch of gold, 

Gleams through its veil of shimmering haze. 
And seeks thee as they sought of old: 

For all the glory of their dress, 

They wear a look of wistfulness. 

In every wood I see thee stand, 
The ruddy boughs above thy head, 

And heaped in either slender hand 
The frosted white and amber ferns. 

The sumach's deep, resplendent red, 
Which like a fiery feather burns, 

And, over all, thy happy eyes. 

Shining as clear as autumn skies. 

I hear thy call upon the breeze. 

Gay as the dancing wind, and sweet, 

And, underneath the radiant trees, 
O'er lichens gray and darkling moss. 

Follow the trace of those light feet 
Which never were at fault or loss. 

But, by some forest instinct led. 

Knew where to turn and how to tread. 

Where art thou, comrade true and tried ? 

The woodlands call for thee in vain. 
And sadly burns the autumn-tide 

Before my eyes, made dim and blind 
By blurring, puzzling mists of pain. 

I look before, I look behind; 
Beauty and loss seem everywhere, 
And grief and glory fill the air. 

Already, in these few short weeks, 
A hundred things I leave unsaid. 

Because there is no voice that speaks 
In answer, and no listening ear, 

No one to care now thou art dead ! 

And month by month, and year by year, 

I shall but miss thee more, and go 

With half my thought untold, I know. 

I do not think thou hast forgot, 
I know that I shall not forget, 



And some day, glad, but wondering not. 
We two shall meet, and, face to face. 

In still, fair fields unseen as yet. 

Shall talk of each old time and place. 

And smile at pain interpreted 

By wisdom learned since we were dead. 



GULF STREAM 

Lonely and cold and fierce I keep my way. 
Scourge of the lands, companioned by 
the storm. 
Tossing to heaven my frontlet, wild and 
gray, 
Mateless, yet conscious ever of a warm 
And brooding presence close to mine all 
day. 

What is this alien thing, so near, so far. 
Close to my life always, but blending 
never, — 
Hemmed in by walls whose crystal gates 
unbar 
Not at the instance of my strong en- 
deavor 
To pierce the stronghold where their secrets 
are ? 

Buoyant, impalpable, relentless, thin. 
Rise the clear, mocking walls. I strive 
in vain 

To reach the pulsing heart that beats within. 
Or, with persistence of a cold disdain. 

To quell the gladness which I may not win. 

Forever sundered and forever one. 

Linked by a bond whose spell I may not 
guess. 

Our hostile yet embracing currents i"un ; 
Such wedlock lonelier is than loneliness. 

Baffled, withheld, I clasp the bride I shun. 

Yet even in my wrath a wild regret 
Mingles; a laitterness of jealous strife 

Tinges my fury as I foam and fret 

Against the borders of that calmer life. 

Beside whose course my wrathful course is 
set. 



492 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



But aU my anger, all my pain and woe, 
Are vain to daunt her gladness ; all the 
while 



She goes rejoicing, and I do not know. 

Catching the soft irradiance of her smile, 
If I am most her lover or her foe. 



(" STUART STERNE ") 



NIGHT AFTER NIGHT 

Night after night we dauntlessly embark 
On slumber's stream, in whose deep waves 

are drowned 
Sorrow and care, and with all senses bound 
Drift for a while beneath the sombre arc 
Of that full circle made of light and dark 
Called life, yet have no fear, and know 

refound 
Lost consciousness shall be, even at the 

sound 
Of the first warble of some early lark 
Or touch of sunbeam. Oh, and why not 

then 
Lie down to our last sleep, still trusting 

Him 
Who guided us so oft through shadows dim, 
Believing somewhere on our sense again 
Some lark's sweet note, some golden beam, 

shall break, 
And with glad voices cry, " Awake ! 

awake ! " 

MY FATHER'S CHILD 

About her head or floating feet 

No halo's starry gleam, 
Still dark and swift uprising, like 

A bubble in a stream, — 

A soul, from whose rejoicing heart 
The bonds of earth were riven. 

Sped upward through the silent night 
To the closed Gates of Heaven. 

And waiting heard a voice, — " Who comes 

To claim Eternity ? 
Hero or saint that bled and died 

Mankind to save and free ? " 

She bent her head. The voice once more, — 

" Didst thou then toil and live 
For home and children — to thy Love 

Last breath and heart's blood give ? " 



Her head sank lower still, she clasped 

Her hands upon her breast: 
" Oh, no ! " she whispered, " my dim life 

Has never been so blest ! 

" I trod a lonely, barren path, 

And neither great nor good. 
Gained not a hero's palm, nor won 

The crown of motherhood ! 

" Oh, I was naught ! " Yet suddenly 
The white lips faintly smiled — 

" Save, oh, methinks I was mayhap 
My Heavenly Father's Child ! " 

A flash of light, a cry of joy. 

And with uplifted eyes 
The soul, through gates rolled open wide, 

Passed into Paradise. 



SOUL 



WHEREFORE 
THEE? 



FRET 



Soul, wherefore fret thee ? Striving still 

to throw 
Some light upon the primal mystery 
Through rolling ages pondered ceaselessly, 
Whence thou hast come, and whither thou 

shalt go ! 
Some deepest, secret voice gives thee to 

know 
How, older than created earth and sea, 
Thou hast been ever, shalt forever be, — 
Unborn — undying ! Thy own life doth 

show, 
Yester, to-day, to-morrow, but a chain 
Of dusky pearls, whereof we seek in 

vain 
End or beginning, though perchance the 

one 
We call To-day gleams whitest in the 

sun. 
Ay, Soul, thy very Self is unto thee 
Immortal pledge of Immortality ! 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



493 



H^ill Carleton 



OUT OF THE OLD HOUSE, 

NANCY 1 

Out of the old house, Nancy — moved up 

into the new; 
All the hurry and worry is just as good as 

through. 
Only a bounden duty remains for you 

and I — 
And that 's to stand on the doorstep 

here, and bid the old house good- 

by. 

What a shell we 've lived in, these nineteen 

or twenty years ! 
Wonder it had n't smashed in, and tumbled 

about pur ears ; 
Wonder it 's stuck together, and answered 

till to-day; 
But every individual log was put up here 

to stay. 

Things looked rather new, though, when 

this old house was built; 
And things that blossomed you would 've 

made some women wilt ; 
And every other day, then, as sure as day 

would break, 
My neighbor Ager come this way, invitin' 

me to " shake." 

And you, for want of neighbors, was some- 
times blue and sad. 

For wolves and bears and wildcats was the 
nearest ones you had; 

But, lookin' ahead to the clearin', we 
worked with all our might, 

Until we was fairly out of the woods, and 
things was goin' right. 

Look up there at our new house ! — ain't it 

a thing to see ? 
Tall and big and handsome, and new as new 

cjan be; 
All in apple-pie order, especially the 

shelves, 
And never a debt to say but what we own 

it all ourselves. 

Look at our old log-house — how little it 
now appears I 

» Copyright, 1873, by 



But it 's never gone back on us for nineteen 

or twenty years; 
An' I won't go back on it now, or go to 

pokin' fun — 
There 's such a thing as praisin' a thing for 

the good that it has done. 

Probably you remember how rich we was 

that night, 
When we was fairly settled, an' had things 

snug and tight : 
We feel as proud as you please, Nancy, 

over our house that 's new. 
But we felt as proud under this old roof, 

and a good deal prouder, too. 

Never a handsomer house was seen beneath 

the sun : 
Kitchen and parlor and bedroom — we 

had 'em all in one; 
And the fat old wooden clock, that we 

bought when we come West, 
Was tickin' away in the corner there, and 

doin' its level best. 

Trees was all around us, a-whisperin' cheer- 
ing words; 

Loud was the squirrel's chatter, and sweet 
the songs of birds; 

And home grew sweeter and brighter — our 
courage began to mount — 

And things looked hearty and happy then, 
and work appeared to count. 

And here one night it happened, when 

things was goin' bad, 
We fell in a deep old quarrel — the first 

we ever had; 
And when you give out and cried, then I, 

like a fool, give in. 
And then we agreed to rub all out, and start 

the thing ag'in. 

Here it was, you remember, we sat when 

the day was done, 
And you was a-makin' clothing that was n't 

for either one ; 
And often a soft word of love I was soft 

enough to say. 
And the wolves was howlin' in the woods 

not twenty rods away. 
Habfek & Bkothbbs. 



494 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Then our first-born baby — a regular little 

joy, 
Though I fretted a little because it was n't 

a boy : 
Wa' n't she a little flirt, though, with all 

her pouts and smiles ? 
Why, settlers come to see that show a half 

a dozen miles. 

Yonder sat the cradle — a homely, home- 
made thing, — 

And many a night I rocked it, providin' 
you would sing ; 

And many a little squatter brougbt up with 
us to stay, — 

And so that cradle, for many a year, was 
never put away. 

How they kept a-comin', so cuunin' and fat 

and small ! 
How. they growed ! 't was a wonder how 

we found room for 'em all; 
But though the house was crowded, it 

empty seemed that day 
When Jennie lay by the fireplace there, and 

moaned her life away. 

An' right in there the preacher, with Bible 

and hymn-book, stood, 
"'Twixt the dead and the living," and 

" hoped 't would do us good ; " 
And the little whitewood coffin on the table 

there was set, 
And now as I rub my eyes it seems as if I 

could see it yet. 

Then that fit of sickness it brought on you, 

you know; 
Just by a thread you hung, and you e'en- 

a'-most let go; 



And here is the spot I tumbled, an' give the 

Lord his due. 
When the doctor said the fever 'd turned, 

an' he could fetch you through. 

Yes, a deal has happened to make this old 

house dear: 
Christenin's, funerals, weddin's — what 

have n't we had here ? 
Not a log in this buildin' but its memories 

has got. 
And not a nail in this old floor but touches 

a tender spot, 

Out of the old house, Nancy, — moved up 

into the new; 
All the hurry and worry is just as good as 

through ; 
But I tell you a thing right here, that I 

ain't ashamed to say, 
There 's precious things in this old house 

we never can take away. 

Here the old house will stand, but not as it 
stood before: 

Winds will whistle through it, and rains 
will flood the floor; 

And over the hearth, once blazing, the snow- 
drifts oft will pile. 

And the old thing will seem to be a-mournin' 
all the while. 

Fare you well, old house ! you're naught 

that can feel or see. 
But you seem like a human being — a dear 

old friend to me ; 
And we never will have a better home, if 

my opinion stands. 
Until we commence a-keepin' house in the 

house not made with hands. 



S[na Coolbritfj 



WHEN THE GRASS SHALL 
COVER ME 

When the grass shall cover me. 
Head to foot where I am lying; 

When not any wind that blows, 
Summer blooms nor winter snows, 
Shall awake me to your sighing: 
Close above me as you pass. 
You will say, " How kind she was," 
You will say, " How true she was," 
When the grass grows over me. 



When the grass shall cover me, 
Holden close* to earth's warm bosom, ■ 
While I laugh, or weep, or sing 
Nevermore, for anything. 
You will find in blade and blossom, 
Sweet small voices, odorous. 
Tender pleaders in my cause, 
That shall- speak nie as I was — •• 
When the grass grows over me. 

When the grass shall cover me ! 
Ah, beloved, in my sorrow 



INA COOLBRITH 



495 



Very patient, I can wait, 
Knowing that, or soon or late, 
There will dawn a clearer morrow: 

When your heart will moan " Alas ! 
Now I know how true she was; 
Now I know how dear she was " — 
When the grass grows over me ! 

THE MARIPOSA LILY 

Insect or blossom ? Fragile, fairy thing. 
Poised upon slender tip, and quivering 
To flight ! a flower of the fields of air; 
A jewelled moth; a butterfly, with rare 
And tender tints upon his downy wing, 
A moment resting in our happy sight; 
A flower held captive by a thread so slight 
Its petal-wings of broidered gossamer 
Are, light as the wind, with every wind 

astir, — 
Wafting sweet odor, faint and exquisite. 
O dainty nursling of the field and sky. 
What fairer thing looks up to heaven's blue 
And drinks the noontide sun, the dawn- 

ing's dew ? 
Thou winged bloom ! thou blossom-butter- 

fly! 

FRUITIONLESS 

Ah ! little flower, upspringing, azure-eyed. 
The meadow-brook beside. 
Dropping delicious balms 
Into the tender palms 
Of lover-winds, that woo with light caress. 

In still contentedness. 
Living and blooming thy brief summer- 
day: — 
So, wiser far than I, 
That only dream and sigh. 
And, sighing, dream my listless life away. 

Ah ! sweetheart birds, a-building your wee 
house 
In the broad-leaved boughs, 
Pausing with merry trill 
To praise each other's skill. 
And nod your pretty heads with pretty 
pride ; 
Serenely satisfied 
To trill and twitter love's sweet roun- 
delay : — 
So, happier than I, 
That, lonely, dream and sigh, 
And, sighing, dream my lonely life away. 



Brown-bodied bees, that scent with nostrils 
fine 
The odorous blossom-wine, 

Sipping, with heads half thrust 
Into the pollen dust 
Of rose and hyacinth and daffodil, 

To hive, in amber cell, 
A honey feasting for the winter-day: — 
So, better far than I, 
Self-wrapt, that dream and sigh, 
And, sighing, dream my useless life away. 



HELEN HUNT JACKSON 

W^HAT songs found voice upon those 
lips, 

What magic dwelt within the pen, 
Whose music into silence slips. 

Whose spell lives not again ! 

For her the clamorous to-day 

The dreamful yesterday became; 

The brands upon dead hearths that lay 
Leaped into living flame. 

Clear ring the silvery Mission bells 
Their calls to vesper and to mass; 

O'er vineyard slopes, through fruited dells, 
The long processions pass; 

The pale Franciscan lifts in air 

The Cross above the kneeling throng; 

Their simple world how sweet with prayer, 
With chant and matin-song ! 

There, with her dimpled, lifted hands. 
Parting the mustard's golden plumes, 

The dusky maid, Ramoua, stands 
Amid the sea of blooms. 

And Alessandro, type of all 
His broken tribe, for evermore 

An exile, hears the stranger call 
Within his father's door. 

The visions vanish and are not. 

Still are the sounds of peace and strife, — 
Passed with the earnest heart and thought 

Which lured them back to life. 

O sunset land ! O land of vine. 
And rose, and bay ! in silence here 

Let fall one little leaf of thine, 
With love, upon her bier. 



496 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



illopb flr^ifRin 



SONNETS 



THE SOVEREIGNS 

They who create rob death of half its 

stings; 
They, from the dim inane and vague opaque 
Of nothingness, build with their thought, 

and make 
Enduring entities and beauteous things; 
They are the Poets — they give airy wings 
To shapes marmorean; or they overtake 
The Ideal with the brush, or, soaring, wake 
Far in the rolling clouds their glorious 

strings. 
The Poet is the only potentate; 
His sceptre reaches o'er remotest zones; 
His thought remembered and his golden 

tones 
Shall, in the ears of nations uncreate, 
Roll on for ages and reverberate 
When Kings are dust beside forgotten 

thrones. 

MILTON 

His feet were shod with music and had 

wings 
Like Hermes: far upon the peaks of song 
His sandals sounded silverly along; 
The dull world blossomed into beauteous 

things 
Where'er he trod; and Heliconian springs 
Gushed from the rocks he touched ; round 

him a throng 
Of fair invisibles, seraphic, strong, 
Struck Orphean murmurs out of golden 

strings ; 
But he, spreading keen pinions for a white 
Immensity of radiance and of peace. 
Up-looming to the Empyrean infinite. 
Far through ethereal fields, and zenith seas, 
High, with strong wing-beats and with eagle 

ease, 
Soared in a solitude of glorious light ! 



II 



THE SHIP 

I LAY on Delos of the Cyclades 

At evening, on a cape of golden land; 



The blind Bard's book was open in my hand, 
There where the Cyclops makes the Odys- 
sey's 
Calm pages tremble as Odysseus flees. 
Then, stately, like a mirage o'er the sand, 
A phantom ship across the sunset strand 
Rose out of dreams and clave the purple 

seas; 
Straight on that city's bastions did she 

run — 
Whose toppling turrets on their donjons 

hold 
Bells that to mortal ears have never 

tolled — 
Then drifted down the gateways of the 

sun 
With fading pennon and with gonfalon, 
And cast her anchors in the pools of gold. 

TO AN OLD VENETIAN WINE-GLASS 

Daughter of Venice, fairer than the moon ! 
From thy dark casement leaning, half 

divine, 
And to the lutes of love that low repine 
Across the midnight of the hushed lagoon 
Listening with languor in a dreamful 

swoon — 
On such a night as this thou didst entwine 
Thy lily fingers round this glass of wine, 
And clasped thy climbing lover — none too 

soon ! 
Thy lover left, but ere he left thy room 
From this he drank, his warm lips at the 

brim; 
Thou kissed it as he vanished in the gloom ; 
That kiss, because of thy true love for 

him — 
Long, long ago, when thou wast in thy 

bloom, — 
Hath left it ever rosy round the rim ! 

Ill 

THESEUS AND ARIADNE 

Thes. Nay, I have loved thee ! 

Ari. Thou hast loved, didst say ? 

Thes. I loved thee well at Crete. 

Ari. Lov'st me no more ? 

Thes. Ah ! who can hold the wave upon 

the shore ? 
Ari. Thou, if thou wouldst; and, oh ! ia 

that the way 



LLOYD MIFFLIN 



497 



Thou speak'st to me, who gave thee, on that 

day, 
My flower of life ? 

Thes. My ship is ready — sail and 

oar ! . . . 
Ari. Did I not save thee from the Mino- 
taur, — 
And wilt thou leave me ? 

Thes. Who can make love stay ? . . . 
Wax is my heart and takes full easily 
The last print on't. Past love is past 

recall. 
Adieu! . . . Love has the helm — he 
guides, not we . . . 
Ari. Beloved Traitor ! May thy black 
sail pall 
Deep in the brine, thee, and thy maidens 

all! . . . 
Ye gods ! he leaves me and my babe to be ! 

IV 

TO THE MILKWEED 

None call thee flower ! . . . I will not so 

malign 
The satin softness of thy plumed seed. 
Nor so profane thee as to call thee weed. 
Thou tuft of ermine down, fit to entwine 
About a queen; or, fitter still, to line 
The nest of birds of strange exotic breed. 
The orient cunning, and the somnolent speed 
Of looms of dusky Ind weave not so fine 
A gossamer . . . Ah me ! could he who sings. 
On such adventurous and aerial wings 
Far over lands and undiscovered seas 
Waft the dark seeds of his imaginings. 
That, flowering, men might say, Lo ! look 

on these 
Wild Weeds of Song — not all ungracious 

things ! 

TO A MAPLE SEED 

Art thou some winged Sprite, that, flutter- 
ing round. 
Exhausted on the grass at last doth lie. 
Or wayward Fay ? Ah, weakling, by and 

Thyself shalt grow a giant, strong and 

sound, 
When, like Antaeus, thou dost touch the 

ground. 
O happy Seed ! it is not thine to die; 
Thy wings bestow thine immortality. 
And thou canst bridge the deep and dark 

profound. 



I hear the ecstatic song the wild bird 

flings. 
In future summers, from thy leafy head ! 
What hopes ! what fears ! what rapturous 

sufferings ! 
What burning words of love will there be 

said ! 
What sobs — what tears ! what passionate 

whisperings ! 
Under thy boughs, when I, alas ! am dead. 



SESOSTRIS 

Sole Lord of Lords and very King of 

Kings, 
He sits within the desert, carved in stone ; 
Inscrutable, colossal, and alone. 
And ancienter than memory of things. 
Graved on his front the sacred beetle 

clings ; 
Disdain sits on his lips; and in a frown 
Scorn lives upon his forehead for a crown. 
The affrighted ostrich dare not dust her 

wings 
Anear this Presence. The long caravan's 
Dazed camels stop, and mute the Bedouins 

stare. 
This symbol of past power more than man's 
Presages doom. Kings look — and Kings 

despair: 
Their sceptres tremble in their jewelled 

hands. 
And dark thrones totter in the baleful air ! 

THE DOORS 

As through the "Void we went I heard his 

plumes 
Strike on the darkness. It was passing 

sweet 
To hold his hand and feel that thin air beat 
Against our pinions as we winged those 

glooms 
Of Ebon, through which Atropos still dooms 
Each soul to pass. Then presently our feet 
Found footing on a ledge of dark retreat. 
And opposite appeared two doors of tombs 
Seen by the star upon the angel's head 
That made dim twilight; there I caught 

my breath: 
" Why pause we here ? " The angel an- 
swering said, 
" The journey ends. These are the Doors 
of Death; 



498 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Lo, now they open, inward, for the dead." 
And then a Voice, — " Who next that euter- 
eth?" 

THE FLIGHT 

Upon a cloud among the stars we stood. 
The angel raised his hand and looked and 

said, 
" Which world, of all yon starry myriad. 
Shall we make wing to ? " The still solitude 
Became a harp whereon his voice and mood 
Made spheral music round his haloed head. 
I spake — for then I had not long been 

dead — 
"Let me look round upon the vasts, and 

brood 
A moment on these orbs ere I decide . . . 
What is yon lower star that beauteous shines 
And with soft splendor now incarnadines 
Our wings ? — There would I go and there 

abide." 
He smiled as one who some child's thought 

divines : 
" That is the world where yesternight you 

died." 



FIAT LUX 

Then that dread angel near the awful 

throne, 
Leaving the seraphs ranged in flaming 

tiers, 
Winged his dark way through those unpin- 

ioned spheres. 
And on the void's black beetling edge, alone,^ 
Stood with raised wings, and listened for 

the tone 
Of God's command to reach his eager 

ears. 
While Chaos wavered, for she felt her years 
Unsceptred now in that convulsive zone. 
Night trembled. And, as one hath oft 

beheld 
A lamp lit in a vase light up its gloom. 
So God's voice lighted him, from heel to 

plume : 
Let there be Light, It said, and Darkness, 

quelled, 
Shrunk noiseless backward in her mon- 
strous womb 
Through vasts unwinnowed by the wings of 

eld! 



Sjamci^ 3[cffrep lloc|jc 



THE KEARSARGE 

In the gloomy ocean bed 

Dwelt a formless thing, and said. 
In the dim and countless eons long ago, 

" I will build a stronghold high, 

Ocean's power to defy. 
And the pride of haughty man to lay low." 

Crept the minutes for the sad, 

Sped the cycles for the glad. 
But the march of time was neither less nor 
more; 

While the formless atom died. 

Myriad millions by its side, 
And above them slowly lifted Roncador. 

Roncador of Caribee, 

Coral dragon of the sea. 
Ever sleeping with his teeth below the wave ; 

Woe to him who breaks the sleep ! 

Woe to them who sail the deep ! 
Woe to ship and man that fear a shipman's 
grave ! 



Hither many a galleon old, 
Heavy-keeled with guilty gold, 

Fled before the hardy rover smiting sore; 
But the sleeper silent lay 
Till the preyer and his prey 

Brought their plunder and their bones to 
Roncador. 

Be content, O conqueror ! 
Now our bravest ship of war, 
War and tempest who had often braved 
before, 
All her storied prowess past, 
Strikes her glorious flag at last 
To the formless thing that builded Ronca 
dor. 



ANDROMEDA 

They chained her fair young body to the 

cold and cruel stone; 
The beast begot of sea and slime had 

marked her for his own; 



JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE — ALICE WELLINGTON ROLLINS 499 



The callous world beheld the wrong, and 

left her there alone. 
Base caitiffs who belied her, false kinsmen 

who denied her, 

Ye left her there alone ! 

My Beautiful, they left thee in thy peril 
and thy pain; 

The night that hath no morrow was brood- 
ing on the main: 

But, lo ! a light is breaking of hope for thee 
again; 

'T,is Perseus' sword a-flaming, thy dawn of 
day proclaiming 

Across the western main. 

Ireland ! O my country ! he comes to 
break thy chain ! 



MY COMRADE 

The love of man and woman is as fire, 
To warm, to light, but surely to consume 
And self -consuming die. There is no room 
For constancy and passionate desire. 
We stand at last beside a wasted pyre. 
Touch its dead embers, groping in the 

gloom ; 
And where an altar stood, erect a tomb. 
And sing a requiem to a broken lyre. 
But comrade-love is as a welding blast 



Of candid flame and ardent temperature: 
Glowing most fervent, it doth bind more 

fast ; 
And melting both, but makes the union 

sure. 
The dross alone is burnt — till at the 

last 
The steel, if cold, is one, and strong and 

pure. 



THE SKELETON AT THE FEAST 

We summoned not the Silent Guest, 

And no man spake his name; 
By lips unseen our Cup was pressed. 
And mid the merry song and jest, 

The Uninvited came. 

Wise were they in the days of old, 

Who gave the Stranger place; 
And when the joyous catch was trolled, 
And toasts were quaffed and tales were 
told, 
They looked him in the face. 

God save us from the skeleton 

Who sitteth at the feast ! 
God rest the manly spirit gone, 
Who sat beside the Silent One, 

And dreaded him the least ! 



%\kt l^dlington ilollinief 



THE DEATH OF AZRON 

He caught his chisel, hastened to his bench. 
And, kneeling on one knee before one 

more 
Pale page of uncarved marble, murmured 

fast, 
" Here will I ask it ! here in marble ! 

here 
Will I carve well the restless, patient 

sphinx, 
With eyes that burn, though prisoned all 

the while 
In dull, cold stone : what is Life for ? what 

for ? " 
And he wrought well; but suddenly there 

came 
A tremor and a chill through his right arm. 



Turning his face, he saw beside him there 
A woman like an angel, or perchance 
An angel like a woman; so supreme 
The look she bent upon him where she 

stood. 
Silent, superb, and beautiful, that he, 
Still holding fast his chisel, stammered 

forth, 
" What art thou ? art thou Love ? — at 

last, for me ? " 
" Not Love," she answered; " Azron, I am 

Death ! " 
"Nay," and he grasped his chisel firmer 

still, 
" I cannot die ! See, I am young ! not 

yet 
Have I fulfilled all that is in my soul. 
I ask not for dull life of plodding clods 



500 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



That know not the divine; I ask not life 
For a wild round of pleasure or mad 

deeds ; 
I ask not love, if it be not for me. 
I ask but work ! I would but finish this ! 
If all the thoughts burning within my 

brain — 
Not foolish thoughts, but thoughts for 

which men wait — 
Are to die now unuttered, if my strength 
Of will and purpose, of proud energy, 
Of eagerness to see but the divine. 
And then reveal it to blind, waiting men, 
Must perish unexpressed, what is it for ? " 
" Azron," the angel answered him, " thy 

sphinx 
Asks, but it answers also; what hast thou 
Answered to those who ask of thine own 

work, 
' What is it for ? ' Didst thou not say to 

them, 
'It matters not, so it be beautiful ' ? 
Thy sphinx, with restless eyes that ask,. 

would fain 
Question, ' What is Life for ? ' but the 

proud mouth. 
The patient sweetness of the even brows, 
The perfect poise of changeless attitude. 
The finely modelled cheek, the unparted 

lips, 
Answer, * It matters not ! it matters not ! 
If only it be beautiful ! ' Nay, this, 
Thy greater work, this glorious tomb of 

thine. 
Not for a living woman, but for her, 
The sphinx that asks and . answers, is it 

not 
A living answer to the living cry ? 
' What is it for ? ' they ask; and thou hast 

said, 
* It matters not, for it is beautiful.' 
It may be I have secrets to reveal 
When thou hast crossed the portal of the 

dead; 
It may be, I have none: it matters not. 
Lay each straight marble firm in its white 

place ; 
Choose well each burnished gem; let all be 

fair 
And orderly; and then it matters not 
What it is for, or when the chisel falls. 
Despair not, Azron, thou hast builded 

well ; 
But now — ask me no more ! — it matters 

not ! " 



And Azron's head sank slowly on his 

breast. 
The chisel fell. 



MANY THINGS THOU HAST 
GIVEN ME, DEAR HEART 

Many things thou hast given me, dear 

heart; 
But one thing thou hast taken: that high 

dream 
Of heaven as of a country that should seem 
Beyond all glory that divinest art 
Has pictured: — with this I have had to 

part 
Since knowing thee ; — how long, love, will 

the gleam 
Of each day's sunlight on my pathway 

stream. 
Richer than what seemed richest at the 

start ? 
Make my days happy, love; yet I entreat 
Make not each happier than the last for 

me; 
Lest heaven itself should dawn to me, com- 
plete 
In joy, not the surprise I dreamed 't would 

be, 
But simply as the natural and sweet 
Continuance of days spent here with thee. 



VITA BENEFICA 

On softest pillows my dim eyes unclose; 
No pain, — delicious weariness instead; 
Sweet silence broods around the quiet 

bed. 
And round me breathes the fragrance of 

the rose. 
The moonlight leans against the pane, and 

shows 
The little leaves outside in watchful dread 
Keeping their guard; while with swift, 

noiseless tread 
Love in its lovelier service comes and goes. 
A hand I love brings nectar; near me 

bends 
A face I love ; ah ! it is over ! — this 
Indeed is heaven. Could I only tell 
Dear ones whose hearts the sorrow for me 

rends 
How easily one meets Death's gentle kiss, — 
And then I woke — to find that I was well ! 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD— DIVISION II 



501 



%lke l^iiliam^ 23tot!)ctton 



THE BLAZING HEART 

Who are ye, spirits, that stand 
In the outer gloom, 
Each with a blazing heart in hand, 
Which lighteth the dark beyond the tomb ? 

" Oh, we be souls that loved 
Too well, too well ! 
Yet, for that love, though sore reproved, 
(Oh, sore reproved !) have we 'scaped hell. 

" 'Scaped hell, but gained not heaven. 
Woe, woe and alas ! 
Only — to us this grace is given, 
To light the dark where the dead must 

pass. 

" Behind us the shadows throng, 
And the mists are gray; 
But our blazing hearts light the soul along 
From grave to yon gate that hides the 
day." 

Who may this lady be 
At my right hand ? 
" This is the heart which for Anthony 
Changed from soft flesh to a burning 
brand." 

" This for ^neas glowed, 
Is glowing still." 
" This kindled for Phaon ;. the flame it 

showed 
No waters of ocean could quench or kill." 

This shape, with the flowing hair ? 
" She loved so much 
That even the Sinless heard her prayer, 
Pitied her pangs, and suffered her touch." 

Bid the sounds of crackling cease ! 
" They blaze, they burn ! " 
Let me flee back to my coffined peace ! 
" Pass on (they beckon) ; there 's no return." 

Spirits, why press ye close ? 
I am faint with fear ! 
" Already thy heart like an ember glows ; 
Pluck it forth from thy bosom, thy place is 
here." 



Happy Francesca ! thine 
Is the fairer lot. 
Better with him in hell to pine 
Than stand in cool shadows by him forgot ! 

MY ENEMY 



My foe was dark, and stern, and grim, 
I lived my life in fear of him. 
I passed no secret, darkened nook 
Without a shuddering, furtive look, 
Lest he should take me unawares 
In some one of his subtle snares. 
Even in broad noon the thought of him 
Turned all the blessed sunlight dim. 
Stole the rich color from the rose, 
The perfume from the elder-blows. 

I saw him not, I heard no sound; 
But traces everywhere I found 
Of his fell plotting. Now, the flower 
Most prized lay blasted by his power; 
From the locked casket, rent apart. 
The jewel dearest to my heart 
Was stolen; or, from out the dark. 
Some swift blow made my heart its 
mark. 

Sweet eyes I loved grew glazed and dim 
That had but caught a glimpse of him; 
And ears, were wont to hear each sigh 
Of mine, were deafened utterly. 
Even to my shrieks; and lips I pressed 
Struck a cold horror to my breast. 
This hath he done, my enemy. 
From him, O God, deliver me ! 



I reached but now this place of gloom 

Through yon small gateway, where is room 

For only one to pass. This calm 

Is healing as a Sabbath psalm. 

A sound, as if the hard earth slid 

Down-rattling on a coffin-lid. 

Was in mine ears. Now all is still. 

And I am free to fare at will — 

Whither ? I seem but tarrying 

For one who doth a message bring. 



502 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Who meets me in the way, whose face 
Is radiant with an angel's grace ? 
Smiling, he saith in underbreath : 
" I am thy foe long dreaded, — Death." 
" O Death, sweet Death, and is it tliou 
I called mine enemy but now ? " 
I place my trusting palms in his, 
And lift my chill lips for his kiss. 
" Press close, be near me to the end, 
When all are fled, my one true friend ! " 



" Yea, friend" he answereth. " All, and 

more 
Than all I took, do I restore — 
Blossom and jewel, youth and hope ; 
And see, this little key doth ope 
The shining portal that we see. 
Beyond which — love awaiteth thee." 

" O blinded eyes ! Ah, foolish heart ! 

Adieu, dear Death — one kiss ! We 
part." 



JBaltet ilcanicti 



WITH A SPRAY OF APPLE 
BLOSSOMS 

The promise of these fragrant flowers, 
The fruit that 'neath these blossoms 
lies 

Once hung, they say, in Eden's bowers. 
And tempted Eve in Paradise. 

fairest daughter of Eve's blood, 
Lest her misprision thine should be, 

1 've nipped temptation in the bud 

And send this snowy spray to thee. 



THE LAST RESERVATION 

Sullen and dull, in the September day, 

On the bank of the river. 

They waited the boat that should bear them 

away 
From their poor homes forever. 

For progress strides on, and the order had 

gone 
To these wards of the nation: 
" Give us land and more room," was the 

cry, " and move on 
To the next reservation." 

With her babe, she looked back at her 

home 'neath the trees 
From which they were driven. 
Where the last camp-fire's smoke, borne out 

on the breeze, 
Rose slowly toward heaven. 

Behind her, fair fields, and the forest and 

glade. 
The home of her nation; 



Around her, the gleam of the bayonet and 

blade 
Of civilization. 

Clasping close to her bosom the small 

dusky form 
With tender caressing. 
She bent down, on the cheek of her babe 

soft and warm 
A mother's kiss pressing. 

A splash in the river — the column moves 

on 
Close-guarded and narrow. 
Noting as little the two that are gone 
As the fall of a sparrow. 

Only an Indian ! Wretched, obscure, 

To refinement a stranger. 

And a babe, that was born in a wigwam as 

poor 
And rude as a manger. 

Moved on — to make room for the growth 

in the West 
Of a brave Christian nation. 
Moved on — thank God, forever at rest 
In the last reservation. 



ON THE FLY-LEAF OF MANON 
LESCAUT 

To you, whose temperate pulses flow 
With measured beat, serene and slow, 
The even tenor of whose way 
Is undisturbed by passion's sway, 
This tale of wayward love may seem 
The record of a fevered dream. 
And yet, we two have that within , 



WALTER LEARNED — HENRY AUGUSTIN BEERS 



503 



To make us what our kind have been. 
A lure more sti-oug, a wish more faint, 
Makes one a monster, one a saint; 
And even love, by difference nice, 
Becomes a virtue or a vice. 
The briar, that o'er the garden wall 
Trails its sweet blossoms till they fall 
Across the dusty road, and then 
Are trodden under foot of meu, 
Is sister to the decorous rose 
Within the garden's well-kept close, 
Whose pinioned branches may not roam 
Out and beyond their latticed home. 
There 's many a life of sweet content 
Whose virtue is environment. 
They erred, they fell; and yet, 'tis true, 
They hold the mirror up to you. 



IN EXPLANATION 

Her lips were so near 

That — what else could I do ? 



You '11 be angry, I fear, 

But her lips were so near — 

Well, I can't make it clear, 
Or explain it to you. 

But — her lips were so near 

That — what else could I do ? 

TO CRITICS 

When I was seventeen I heard 
From each censorious tongue, 

" I 'd not do that if I were you ; 
You see you're rather young." 

Now that I number forty years, 

I 'm quite as often told 
Of this or that I should n't do 

Because I 'm quite too old. 

O carping world ! If there 's an age 
Where youth and manhood keep 

An equal poise, alas ! I must 
Have passed it in my sleep. 



^entp 3Cu5Ui9ftin ^tct0 



POSTHUMOUS 

Put them in print ? 

Make one more dint 

In the ages' furrowed rock ? No, no ! 

Let his name and his verses go. 

These idle scraps, they would but wrong 

His memory, whom we honored long. 

And men would ask: " Is this the best — 

Is this the whole his life expressed ? " 

Haply he had no care to tell 

To all the thoughts which flung their spell 

Around us when the night grew deep, 

Making it seem a loss to sleep, 

Exalting the low, dingy room 

To some high auditorium. 

And when we parted homeward, still 

They followed us beyond the hill. 

The heaven had brought uew stars to sight. 

Opening the map of later night; 

And the wide silence of the snow, 

And the dark whispers of the pines, 

And those keen fires that glittered slow 

Along the zodiac's wintry signs, 



Seemed witnesses and near of kin 
To the high dreams we held within. 

Yet what is left 

To us bereft. 

Save these remains. 

Which now the moth 

Will fret, or swifter fire consume ? 

These inky stains 

On his table-cloth; 

These prints that decked his room ; 

His throne, this ragged easy-chair; 

This battered pipe, his councillor. 

This is the sum and inventory. 

No son he left to tell his story, 

No gold, no lands, no fame, no book. 

Yet one of us, his heirs, who took 

The impress of his brain and heart. 

May gain from Heaven the lucky art 

His untold meanings to impart 

In words that will not soon decay. 

Then gratefully will such one say: 

" This phrase, dear friend, perhaps, is mine; 

The breath that gave it life was thine." 



504 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD— DIVISION II 



ON A MINIATURE 

Thine old-world eyes — each one a violet 
Big as the babj rose that is thy mouth — 

Set me a-dreaming. Have our eyes not met 
In childhood — in a garden of the South ? 

Thy lips are trembling with a song of 
France, 
My cousin, and thine eyes are dimly 
sweet; 
'Wildered with reading in an old romance 
All afternoon upon the garden seat. 

The summer wind read with thee, and the 
bees 
That on the sunny pages loved to crawl; 
A skipping reader was the impatient 
breeze, 
And turned the leaves, but the slow bees 
read all, 

And now thy foot descends the terrace 
stair; 
I hear the rustle of thy silk attire; 
I breathe the musky odors of thy hair, 
And airs that from thy painted fan 
respire. 

Idly thou pausest in the shady walk. 

Thine ear attentive to the fountain's fall ; 
Thou mark'st the flower-de-luce sway on 
her stalk, 
The speckled vergalieus ripening on the 
wall. 

Thou hast the feature of my mother's 
race. 
The gilded comb she wore, her smile, her 
eye; 
The blood that flushes softly in thy face 
Crawls through my veins beneath this 
northern sky. 

As one disherited, though next of kin. 
Who lingers at the barred ancestral gate. 

And sadly sees the happy heir within 
Stroll careless through his forfeited 
estate, — 

Even so I watch thy southern eyes, Lisette, 
Lady of my lost paradise, and heir 

Of summer days that were my birth- 
right. Yet 
Beauty like thine makes usurpation fair. 



BIFTEK AUX CHAMPIGNONS 

MiMi, do you remember — 

Don't get behind your fan — 
That morning in September 

On the cliffs of Grand Manan, 
Where to the shock of Fundy 

The topmost harebells sway 
(^Campanula rotundi- 

folia: cf. Gray) ? 

On the pastures high and level, 

That overlook the sea, 
Where I wondered what the devil 

Those little things could be 
That Mimi stooped to gather. 

As she strolled across the down, 
And held her dress skirt rather — 

Oh, now, you need n't frown. 

For you know the dew was heavy, 
And your boots, / know, were thin; 

So a little extra brevi- 
ty in skirts was, sure, no sin. 

Besides, who minds a cousin ? 
First, second, even third, — 

I 've kissed 'em by the dozen. 
And they never once demurred. 

" If one 's allowed to ask it," 

Quoth I, " Ma belle cousine, 
What have you in your basket ? " 

(Those baskets white and green 
The brave Passamaquoddies 

Weave out of scented grass, 
And sell to tourist bodies 

Who through Mt. Desert pass.) 

You answered, slightly frowning, 

" Put down your stupid book — 
That everlasting Browning ! — 

And come and help me look. 
Mushroom you spik him English, 

I call him champignon : 
I '11 teach you to distinguish 

The right kind from the wrong." 

There was no fog on Fundy 

That blue September day; 
The west wind, for that one day, 

Had swept it all away. 
The lighthouse glasses twinkled. 

The white gulls screamed and flew. 
The merry sheep-bells tinkled, 

The merry breezes blew. 



BEERS — ARTHUR SHERBURNE HARDY 



505 



The bayberry aromatic, 

The papery immortelles 
(That give our grandma's attic 

That sentimental smell, 
Tied up in little brush-brooms) 

Were sweet as new-mown hay. 
While we went hunting mushrooms 

That blue September day. 



ECCE IN DESERTO 

The wilderness a secret keeps 

Upon whose guess I go: 
Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard; 

And yet I know, I know, 

Some day the viewless latch will lift, 

The door of air swing wide 
To one lost chamber of the wood 

Where those shy mysteries hide, — 

One yet unfound, receding depth. 
From which the wood-thrush sings, 

Still luring in to darker shades. 
In — in to colder springs. • 

There is no wind abroad to-day. 

But hark ! — the pine-tops' roar. 
That sleep and in their dreams repeat 

The music of the shore. 

What wisdom in their needles stirs ? 

What song is that they sing ? 
Those airs that search the forest's heart, 

What rumor do they bring ? 

A hushed excitement fills the gloom, 

And, in the stillness, clear 
The vireo's tell-tale warning rings : 

" 'T is near — 't is near — 't is near ! " 

As, in the fairy-tale, more loud 
The ghostly music plays 



When, toward the enchanted bower, the 
prince 
Draws closer through the maze. 

Nay — nay. I track a fleeter game, 

A wilder than ye know. 
To lairs beyond the inmost haunt 

Of thrush or vireo. 

This way it passed : the scent lies fresh; 

The ferns still lightly shake- 
Ever I follow hard upon. 

But never overtake. 

To other woods the trail leads on, 

To other worlds and new. 
Where they who keep the secret here 

Will keep the promise too. 

THE SINGER OF ONE SONG 1 

He sang one song and died — no more but 
that: 

A single song and carelessly complete. 

He would not bind and thresh his chance- 
grown wheat. 

Nor bring his wild fruit to the common vat, 

To store the acid rinsings, thin and flat. 

Squeezed from the press or trodden under 
feet. 

A few slow beads, blood-red and honey- 
sweet. 

Oozed from the grape, which burst and 
spilled its fat. 

But Time, who soonest drops the heaviest 
things 

That weight his pack, will carry diamonds 
long. 

So through the poets' orchestra, which 
weaves 

One music from a thousand stops and 
strings. 

Pierces the note of that immortal song: 

" High over all the lonely bugle grieves." 



3Crt{)ur dt>ljerliurne ]^arby 



DUALITY 

W^iTHiN me are two souls that pity each 
The other for the ends they seek, yet 
smile 



Forgiveness, as two friends that love 
the while 
The folly against which each feigns to 
preach. 



See page 89. 



5o6 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



And while one barters in the market-place, 
Or drains the cup before the tavern fire, 
The other, winged with a divine desire, 

Searches the solitary wastes of space. 

And if o'ercome with pleasure this one 
sleeps, 
The other steals away to lay its ear 
Upon some lip just cold, perchance to 
hear 
Those wondrous secrets which it knows — 
and keeps. 



IMMORTALITY 

My window is the open sky, 

The flower in farthest wood is mine; 

I am the heir to all gone by, 

The eldest son of all the line. 

And when the robbers Time and Death 

Athwart my path conspiring stand, 

I cheat them with a clod, a breath, 

And pass the sword from hand to hand ! 



ITER SUPREMUM 

Oh, what a night for a soul to go ! 
The wind a hawk, and the fields in snow; 
No screening cover of leaves in the wood, 
Nor a star abroad the way to show. 

Do they part in peace, — soul with its clay ? 
Tenant and landlord, what do they say ? 
Was it sigh of sorrow or of release 
I heard just now as the face turned gray ? 

What if, aghast on the shoreless main 
Of Eternity, it sought again 
The shelter and rest of the isle of Time, 
And knocked at the door of its house of 
pain ! 

On the tavern hearth the embers glow, 
The laugh is deep, and the flagons low; 
But without, the wind and the trackless 

sky, 
And night at the gates where a soul would 
go. 



3BiHiam f oung 



FROM "WISHMAKERS' TOWN" 

THE BELLS 

I -»• 

Awake ! Awake ! 
All living things that be, 

In nest or fold ! — 
All lives that solace take, 
And dreamful ease, in tent, or wind-blown 

tree. 
Or curtained couch, your wanderings 

forsake 
In the dim realms of unreality ! 
Awake, for shame 
Of languor's soft delight ! 
Lo, once again earth's heaving disk is rolled 
In rosy flame. 
And through the camps of night, 
The flying Moon, beneath her splintered 

targe. 
Sore-stricken by the feathered shafts of 

Dawn, 
And harried by her hounds, like Actaeon, 
Kneels, 
Stoops, and wheels 
Adown the western marge ! 



Awake to toil ! 
In wood, and rock-ribbed hill, 

And loamy mead. 
What golden largess lies ! 
Awake to strife, and far-resounding deed. 
In love's sweet quest, or honor's high 

emprise. 
With trumpets blown, and clash of steed 
with steed ! 
Awake to care. 
And triumph's frequent foil ! 
But still pursue ! O hand with strength to 

take — 
O dauntless heart, to suffer, and to dare — 
O swerveless will, 
To bend, or else to break — 
To life, to love, to conquest, and to spoil 
Awake ! Awake ! 

THE FLOWER-SELLER 

Myrtle, and eglantine. 

For the old love and the new ! 

And the columbine. 

With its cap and bells, for folly ! 



WILLIAM YOUNG 



507 



And the daffodil, for the hopes of youth ! 
And the rue, 
For melancholy ! 
But of all the blossoms that blow, 
Fair gallants all, I charge you to win, if ye 
may, 
This gentle guest, 
Who dreams apart, in her wimple of purple 

and gray. 
Like the blessed Virgin, with meek head 
bending low 
Upon her breast. • 

For the orange flower 

Ye may buy as ye will; but the violet of 

the wood 
Is the love of maidenhood; 
And he that hath worn it but once, though 

but for an hour, — 
He shall never again, though he wander by 

many a stream. 
No, never again shall he meet with a flower 

that shall seem 
So sweet and pure; and forever, in after 

years, 
At the thought of its bloom, or the fra- 
grance of its breath. 
The past shall arise. 
And his eyes shall be dim with tears. 
And his soul shall be far in the gardens of 

Paradise, 
Though he stand in the shambles of death. 



THE CONSCIENCE-KEEPER 

Repent, ye, predestinate to woe ! 
'T is mine to cry — albeit, Avell I wis, 
Ye may not heed. And ye, elect to 
bliss. 

Must e'en be saved, whether I cry or no. 

And yet, repent ! Repent ye, and atone. 
In either case. Forswear your wisdom's 

pride. 
And pray for faith — though some must 
be denied ! 
Nor yet by prayer, nor yet by faith alone. 

But by your works, attest your penitence. 

Give to the poor ! — of whom ye see in 
me 

God's almoner — and in your charity 
Deign to forget not Peter and his pence. 



THE PAWNS 

Pkince, and Bishop, and Knight, and 
Dame, 

Plot, and plunder, and disagree ! 
O but the game is a royal game ! 

O but your tourneys are fair to see I 

None too hopeful we found our lives; 

Sore was labor from day to day ; 
Still we strove for our babes and wives — 

Now, to the trumpet, we march away ! 



"Why 



■For some one hath willed it 



Nothing we know of the why or the 
where — 
To swamp, or jungle, or wastes of snow — 
Nothing we know, and little we care. 

Give us to kill ! — since this is the end 
Of love and labor in Nature's plan; 

Give us to kill and ravish and rend, 
Yea, since this is the end of man. 

States shall perish, and states be born: 
Leaders, out of the throng, shall press, — 

Some to honor, and some to scorn: 
We, that are little, shall yet be less. 

Over our lines shall the vulture soar; 
Hard on our flanks shall the jackals 
c*y; 
And the dead shall be as the sands of the 
shore; 
And daily the living shall pray to die. 

Nay, what matter ! — When all is said, 
Prince and Bishop will plunder still: 

Lord and Lady must dance and wed. 
Pity us, pray for us, ye that will ! 



THE BRIDAL PAIR 

He 

Though the roving bee, as lightly. 

Sip the sweets of thyme and clover, 
Though the moon of May, as whitely. 
Silver all the greensward over. 
Yet, beneath the trysting tree. 
That hath been which shall not 
be! 



5o8 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



She 

Drip the viols, ne'er so sweetly, 
With the honey-dew of pleasure — 

Trip the dancers, ne'er so f eatly, 

Through the old remembered measure, 

Yet, the lighted lanthorn round, 
What is lost shall not be found ! 



JUDITH 

Flower of youth, in the ancient frame — 

Maid of the mettlesome lip and eye, 
Lightly wearing the fateful name, 

And the rakish beaver of days gone 
by! 
Pink of fashion ! Yet this is she 

That once, through midnight forest and 
fen. 
Guided the horsemen of "Old Santee," 

And rode to the death with Marion's 



Rare the picture that decks the wall; 

Kare and dainty, in life, below. 
My century-later belle of the ball. 

Mocking the beauty of long ago. 
If now the summons should come to ride. 

Through such a darkness as brooded 
then, 
How would it please you to serve as guide ? 

And where, ah, where were Marion's 
men? 



False the logic that breeds the fear. 

Buds will blossom, and pipes will play. 
So it was in that early year; 

So shall it be till the world is gray. 
But the petted darling, if need shall be, 

As swift to the saddle will vault again; 
And those that follow will ride as free 

As ever of old rode Marion's men. 



PHILOMEL TO CORYDON 

Shepherd, wilt thou take counsel of the 

bird 
That oft hath hearkened, from this leafy 

lair. 
To love's entreaty, and the parting 

word ? — 
Sue not so humbly to the haughty fair. 
Pipe in her praise upon thine oaten straw, 
And pipe the louder when she says thee 

nay; 
Swear that her lightest wish to thee is law, 
But break the law twice twenty times a 

day. 
Trust not to argument, or thou 'rt undone ; 
But calmly, gently, when she doth protest 
Her course is East, impel her to the West; 
Approve her way, but lead her in thine 

own. 
For learn, fond youth, wouldst thou escape 

disaster, 
That woman likes a slave — but loves a 

master. 



iBiU ]^enrp €|)omjp^on 



THE HIGH TIDE AT GETTYS- 
BURG 

A CLOUD possessed the hollow field. 
The gathering battle's smoky shield. 
Athwart the gloom the lightning flashed, 
And through the cloud some horsemen 

dashed. 
And from the heights the thunder pealed. 

Then at the brief command of Lee 
Moved out that matchless infantry, 
With Pickett leading grandly down, 
To rush against the roaring crown 
Of those dread heights of destiny. 



Far heard above the angry guns 

A cry across the tumult runs, — 

The voice that rang through Shiloh's woods 

And Chickamauga's solitudes. 

The fierce South cheering on her sons ! 

Ah, how the withering tempest blew 
Against the front of Pettigrew ! 
A Khamsin wind that scorched and singed 
Like that infernal flame that fringed 
The British squares at Waterloo ! 

A thousand fell where Kemper led; 
A thousand died where Garnett bled : 
In blinding flame and strangling smoke 



WILL H. THOMPSON — CHARLES DE KAY 



509 



The remnant through the batteries broke 
And crossed the works with Armistead. 

" Once more in Glory's van with me ! " 
Virginia cried to Tennessee; 
" We two together, come what may, 
Shall stand upon these works to-day ! " 
(The reddest day in history.) 

Brave Tennessee ! In reckless way 
Virginia heard her comrade say: 
" Close round this rent and riddled rag ! " 
What time she set her battle-flag 
Amid the guns of Doubleday. 

But who shall break the guards that wait 
Before the awful face of Fate ? 
The tattered standards of the South 
Were shriveled at the cannon's mouth. 
And all her hopes were desolate. 

In vain the Tennesseean set 
His breast aga!inst the bayonet ! 
In vain Virginia charged and raged, 
A tigress in her wrath uncaged, 
Till all the hill was red and wet ! 

Above the bayonets, mixed and crossed, 
Men saw a gray, gigantic ghost 
Receding through the battle-cloud, 
And heard across the tempest loud 
The death-cry of a nation lost ! 

The brave went down ! Without disgrace 
They leaped to Ruin's red embrace. 
They only heard Fame's thunders wake. 
And saw the dazzling sun-burst break 
In smiles on Glory's bloody face ! 

They fell, who lifted up a hand 
And bade the sun in heaven to stand ! 



They smote and fell, who set the bars 
Against the progress of the stars, 
And stayed the march of Motherland ! 

They stood, who saw the future come 
On through the fight's delirium ! 
They smote and stood, who held the hope 
Of nations on that slippery slope 
Amid the cheers of Christendom. 

God lives ! He forged the iron will 
That clutched and held that trembling hill. 
God lives and reigns ! He built and lent 
The heights for Freedom's battlement 
Where floats her flag in triumph still ! 

Fold up the banners ! Smelt the guns ! 
Love rules. Her gentler purpose runs. 
A mighty mother turns in tears 
The pages of her battle years. 
Lamenting all her fallen sons ! 

COME LOVE OR DEATH 

O LIFTED face of mute appeal ! 

Poor tongueless pantomime of prayer ! 
O sullen sea, whose deeps conceal 

The children of despair ! 

heart that will not look above ! 

Poor staggering feet that seek the wave ! 

1 would come quick, if I were Love, 
And I had power to save. 

O sinking sunset loneliness 

Aflame in hot, unmoving eyes ! 

Poor wan lips, creeping in distress 
To cover up your cries ! 

broken speech, and sobbing breath ! 
Poor restless and uncertain will ! 

1 would come quick, if I were Death, 
And I had power to kill ! 



Cjjarle^ tie Map 



ARCANA SYLVARUM 

Hark ! . . . 

What booming 

Faints on the high-strung ear ? 

Through the damp woods (so dark 

No flowers are blooming) 

I hear, I hear 

The twang of harps, the leap 



Of hairy feet, and know the revel 's ripe, 
While, like a coral stripe. 
The lizard cool doth creep. 
Monster, but monarch there, up the pale 
Indian Pipe. 

Hush ! . . . 

Your panting 

Will scare them from their game. 



5^ 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Let not a footfall crush 

Their rites enchanting ! 

The deadwood's flame, 

Bellies of murdered fire-flies, 

And glimmering moonstones thick with 

treasured rays 
Shall help our round-eyed gaze 
Antics unholy to surprise, 
Which the ungodly crew round the red 

lizard plays. 

Now ! . . . 

No breathing 

To spoil the heathenish dance ! 

Lest from each pendent bough 

Poison be seething, — 

A hair-fine lance 

Pierce to our brain, and slowly slay. 

But look your breathless fill, and mark 

them swing, 
Man and maid a-capering, 
Ugly, fair, morosely gay, 
Round the red lizard smooth, crowned for 

their wicked king. 

Back ! . . . 
Inhuman 

Are gestures, laughs, and jeers. 
Off, ere we lose the track ! 
Nor man nor woman 
May stand your leers. 
Shameless and loose, uncovered creatures ! 
Quick, lest we join their orgies in the dark ! 
Back ! For the madness stark 
Is crawling through our natures 
To touch the red lizard vile, spread on the 
damp white bark. 



ULF IN IRELAND 
(a. d. 790) 

What then, what if my lips do burn, 

Husband, husband; 
What though thou see'st my red lips burn, 
Why look'st thou with a look so stern, 

Husband ? 

It was the keen wind through the reed. 

Husband, husband: 
'T was wind made sharp with sword-edge 

reed 
That made my tender lips to bleed, 

Husband. 



And hath the wind a human tooth, 

Woman, woman? 
Can light wind mark like human tooth 
A shameful scar of love uncouth, 

Woman f 

What horror lurks within your eyes, 

Husband, husband ? 
What lurking horror strains your eyes, 
What black thoughts from your heart 
arise, 

Husband ? 

Who stood beside you at the gate, 

Woman, woman ? 
Who stood so near you by the gate 
No moon your shapes could separate, 

Woman f 

So God me save, 't was I alone. 

Husband, husband ! 
So Christ me save, 't was I alone 
Stood listening to the ocean moan, 

Husband ! 

Then hast thou four feet at the least, 

Woman, woman ! 
Thy Christ hath lent thee four at least. 
Oh, viler than fourfooted beast, 

Woman ! 

A heathen witch hath thee unmanned, 

Husband, husband ! 
A foul witchcraft, alas, unmanned: 
Thou saw'st some old tracks down the 
sand. 

Husband ! 

Yet were they tracks that toent not far, 

Woman, woman; 
Those ancient foot-marks went not far. 
Or else you search the harbor bar. 

Woman. 

It is not yours alone that bleed. 

Woman, woman ; 
Smooth lips not yours may also bleed. 
Your wound has been avenged with speed, 
■ Woman! 

What talk you so of bar and wound, 

Husband, husband ? 
What ghastly sign of sudden wound 
And kinsman smitten to the ground. 

Husband ? 



CHARLES DE KAY — EDWARD KING 



511 



/ saw your Wood upon his cheek, 

Woman, looman ■ 
The moon had marked his treacherous cheek, 
I marked his heart beside the creek, 

Woman ! 

What, have you crushed the only flower, 

Husband, husband ! 
Among our weeds the only flower ? 
Henceforward get you from my bower, 

Husband ! 

I love you not; I loved but him. 

Husband, husband ! 
In all the world I loved but him; 
Not hell my love for Brenn shall dim. 

Husband ! 

He 's caught her by her jet-black hair; 

Sorrow, sorrow ! 
He 's bent her head back by the hair 
Till all her throbbing throat lies bare — 

Sorrow ! 



You knew me fiercer than the wolf, 
Woman, woman ; 

You knew I well am named the wolf ; 

I shall both you and him engulf. 
Woman. 

Yet I to you was always kind, 
Woman, woman • 

To serpents only fools are kind ; 

Yet still with love of you I 'm blind, 
Woman. 

a 

I'll look no more upon your face. 

Woman, woman; 
These eyes shall never read your face, 
For you shall die in this small space, 
Woman ! 

He 's laid his mouth below her chin, 

Horror ! 
That throat he kissed below the chin 
No breath thereafter entered in: 

Horror, horror ! 



€DtDarb IHing 



THE TSIGANE'S CANZONET 



No ! No ! 
Bird in the darkness singing, 

I will not forget ! 
Trill me thy tender lay again, — 
Thy song of passion and of pain; 
Set all the sweet vale ringing 
With thy canzonet. 
Cling to thy branch, O bird, and cry, 
" Love me, my love, or let me die ! " 
With ecstasy I hear thee. 
And trembling linger near thee; 
So let thine exquisite pure melody o'erflow 
this narrow space, and inundate 
the sky ! 
The winds that wander by 
Will bear it to my love ; 
But I need not to prove 
My loyalty with song, 
For I have loved her long f 
No! No! 
Bird in the darkness singing, 
1 will not forget ! 



pro- 



No ! No ! 
Great river nobly flowing, 
I will not forget ! 
Tell every flower that bends to kiss 
Thy wave, how truest lover's bliss 
Within my heart is glowing. 
In my soul stays yet ! 
With murmur sweet, fair stream, 

claim 

The magic of my lady's name 
To every graceful willow 
That sways above each billow; 
To every reed beside thy banks so broad 
and low tell of her beauty and her 
spotless fame. 
But seek not me to blame, 
For I am loyal still; 
My heart knows but her will; 
The thought of her caress 
Is ever here to bless: 
No ! No ! 
Great river nobly flowing, 
I will not forget. 



512 SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 




A WOMAN'S EXECUTION 


That badge ? No shame: 






Glad that I wore it ! " 




(PARIS, 1871) 






(Hair to her waist. 




Sweet-breathed and young, 
The people's daughter, 


Limbs like a Venus) : 




Robes are displaced: 




No nerves unstrung, 


" Soldiers, please screen us ! 




Going to slaughter ! 


" He at the front ? 




" Good morning, friends, 

You '11 love us better, — 
Make us amends: i 


That is my lover: 
Stood all the brunt ; — 
Now — the fight 's over. 




We 've burst your fetter ! 


" Powder and bread 
Gave out together: 




" How the sun gleams ! 


Droll ! to be dead 




(Women are snarling): 


In this bright weather ! 




Give me your beams, 






Liberty's darling ! 


" Jean, boy, we might 
Have married in June ! 




" Marie 's my name; 


This the wall ? Right ! 




Christ's mother bore it. 


Vive la Commune I" 





]^jalmar J^jortj) 25ope^en 



THORALF AND SYNNOV 

O, HAVE you been in Gudbrand's dale, 

where Laag'en's mighty flood 
Chants evermore its wild refrain unto the 

listening wood ? 
And have you seen the evening, sun on 

those bright glaciers glow, 
When valleyward it shoots and darts like 

shafts from elfin bow ? 

tHave you beheld the maidens when the 
saeter path they tread 

With ribbons in their sunny hair and milk- 
pails on the head ? 

And have you heard the fiddles when they 
strike the lusty dance ? 

Then you have heard of Synnbv Houg, and 
of myself perchance. 

For Synnov Houg is lissome as the limber 

willow spray; 
And when you think you. hold her fast, and 

she is yours for aye. 
Then, like the airy blowball that dances o'er 

the lea. 
She gently through your fingers slips and 

lightly floateth free. 



Then it was last St. John's Eve, — I re- 
member it so well, — 

We lads had lit a bonfire in a grass-grown 
little dell; 

And all the pretty maidens were seated 
in a ring. 

And some were telling stories, while the 
rest were listening; 



Till up sprang little Synnov, and she sang 

a stave as clear 
As the skylark's earliest greeting in the 

morning of the year; 
And I — I hardly knew myself, but up 

they saw me dart. 
For every note of Synnov's stave went 

straight unto my heart. 



And like the rushing currents that from the 

glaciers flow, 
And down into the sunny bays their icy 

waters throw, 
So streamed my heavy bass-notes through 

the forests far and wide. 
And Synnov's treble rocked like a feather 

on the tide. 



BOYESEN — JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 



513 



"My little Synnov," sang I, "thou art 

good and very fair." 
" And little Thoralf ," sang she, " of what 

you say, beware ! " 
" My fairest Synnov," quoth I, " my heart 

was ever thine. 
My homestead and my goodly farm, my 

herds of lowing kine." 

" O Thoralf, dearest Thoralf, if that your 

meaning be, — 
If your big heart can hold such a little 

thing as me, — 
Then I shall truly tell you if e'er I want a 

man, 
And you are free to catch me, handsome 

Thoralf — if you can ! " 

And down the hillside ran she, where the 
tangled thicket weaves 

A closely latticed bower with its intertwin- 
ing leaves, 

And through the copse she bounded, light- 
footed as a hare, 

And with her merry laughter rang the 
forest far and near. 

Whenever I beheld little Synnov, all that 

year. 
She fled from my sight as from hunter's 

shaft the deer; 
I lay awake full half the nights and knew 

not what to do. 
For I loved the little Synnov so tenderly 

and true. 

Then 'twas a summer even up in the birchen 

glen, 
I sat listening to the cuckoo and the twitter 

of the wren. 
When suddenly above me rang out a silver 

voice ; 
It rose above the twittering birds and o'er 

the river's noise. 



There sat my little maid, where the rocks 
had made a seat; 

And tiny crimson flowers grew all around 
her feet, 

And on her yellow locks clung a tiny rogu- 
ish hood; 

Its edge was made of swan's-down, but 
the cloth was red as blood. 

And noiselessly behind her I had stolen 

through the copse. 
I cursed the restless birch-trees for rustling 

in their tops; 
How merrily my heart beat ! And forth I 

leapt in haste. 
And flung a slender birch-bough around 

the maiden's waist. 

She blushed and she fluttered, — then 

turned away to run. 
But straight into my sturdy arms I caught 

the little one. 
I put her gently down on the heather at 

my side. 
Where tiny crimson flowers the rocky 

ledges hide. 

And as the prisoned birdling, when he 

knows his cage full well. 
Pours forth his notes full blithely, and 

naught his mirth can quell. 
So little Synnov, striving in vain my hold 

to flee, 
Turned quick on me her roguish eyes and 

laughed full heartily. 

" My little Synnov," said I, " if I remem- 
ber right, 

'Twas something that you promised me a 
year ago to-night." 

Then straight she stayed her laughter and 
serious she grew. 

And whispered, " Dearest Thoralf, you 
promised something too." 



gjod Ctjaiiblcr ^atti^ 



THE PLOUGH-HANDS' SONG 

Nigger mighty happy w'en he layin' by 
co'n — 

Dat sun 's a-slantin' ; 

Nigger mighty happy w'en he year de din- 
ner ho'n — 



Dat sun 's a-slantin'; 
En he mo' happy still w'en de night draws 
on — ■ 

Dat sun's a-slantin'; 
Dat sun 's a-slantin' des ez sho 's you bo'n ! 
En it 's rise up. Primus ! fetch anudder 
yell: 



514 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Dat ole dim cow des a-shakin' up 'er bell, 


Hit 's a mighty fur ways fer ter go in de 


En de frogs chunin' up 'fo de jew done fell: 


night, 


Good-night, Mr. Killdee ! I wish you mighty 


My honey, my love ! 


well ! — 


My honey, my love, my heart's delight — 


Mr. Kildee ! I wish you mighty loell ! — 


My honey, my love I 


1 wish you mighty well ! 






Mister Mink, he creeps twel he wake up de 


De c'on '11 be ready 'g'inst dumplin' day, 


snipe, 


Dat sun 's a-slantiu'; 


My honey, my love ! 


But nigger gotter watch, en stick, en stay, 


Mister Bull-Frog hollerj Come alight my 


Dat sun 's a-slantin' ; 


pipe ! 


Same ez de bee-martin watchin' un de jay. 


My honey, my love ! 


Dat sun 's a slantin' ; 


En de Pa'tridge ax, Ain't yo' peas ripe ? 


Dat sun 's a-slantin' en a-slippin' away ! 


My honey, my love ! 


Den it 's rise up, Primus ! en gin it t' um 


Better not walk erlong dar much atter 


strong: 


night. 


De cow 's gwine home wid der ding-dang- 


My honey, my love ! 


dong; 


My honey, my love, my heart's delight — 


Sling in anudder tech er de ole time song: 


My honey, my love! 


Good-night, Mr. Whipperwill I don't stay 




long I — 


De Bully-Bat fly mighty close ter de groun', 


Mr. Whipperwill ! don't stay long ! — 


My honey, my love ! 


Don't stay long ! 


Mister Fox, he coax 'er, Do come down ! 




My honey, my love ! 


De shadders, dey er creepin' todes de top 


Mister Coon, he rack all 'roun 'en 'rouu', 


er de hill, 


My honey, my love ! 


Dat sun 's a-slantin'; 


In de darkes' night, oh, de nigger, he 's a 


But night don't 'stroy w'at de day done buil', 


sight ! 


Dat sun's a-slantin'; 


My honey, my love ! 


'Less de noddin' er de nigger give de ash- 


My honey, my love, my heart's delight — 


cake a chill — 


My honey, my love ! 


Dat sun 's a-slantiu'; 




Dat sun's a-slantin' en slippin' down still ! 


Oh, flee, Miss Nancy, flee ter my knee, 


Den sing it out. Primus ! des holler en 


My honey, my love ! 


bawl, 


'Lev'n big, fat coons liv' in one tree, 


En w'ilst we er strippin' deze mules fer de 


My honey, my love. 


stall, 


Oh, ladies all, won't you marry me ? 


Let de gals ketch de soun' er de plantashun 


My honey, my love ! 


call: 


Tu'n lef,' tu'n right, we '11 dance all night, 


Oh, it 's good-night, ladies ! my love unter you 


My honey, my love ! 


all! — 


My honey, my love, my heart's delight — 


Ladies ! my love unter you all ! — 


My honey, my love ! 


My love unter you all ! 






De big Owl holler en cry fer his mate, 


MY HONEY, MY LOVE 


My honey, my love ! 




Oh, don't stay long ! Oh, don't stay late ! 


Hit 's a mighty fur ways up de Far'well 


My honey, my love. 


Lane, 


Hit ain't so mighty fur ter de Good-by 


My honey, my love ! 


Gate, 


iTou may ax Mister Crow, you may ax 


My honey, my love ! 


Mister Crane, 


Whar we all got ter go w'eu we sing out 


My honey, my love ! 


de night, 


Dey '11 make you a bow, en dey '11 tell you 


My honey, my love ! 


de same. 


My honey, my love, my heart's delight — 


My honey, my love / 


My honey, my lo^'e ! 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



515 



Sloljn Fance Cjjcnep^ 



THE HAPPIEST HEART 

Who drives the horses of the sun 
Shall lord it but a day ; 
Better the lowly deed were done, 
And kept the humble way. 

The rust will find the sword of fame, 
The dust will hide the crown; 
Ay, none shall nail so high his name 
Time will not tear it down. 

The happiest heart that ever beat 
Was in some quiet breast 
That found the common daylight sweet, 
And left to Heaven the rest. 



THE STRONG 

Dost deem him weak that owns his 
strength is tried ? 
Nay, we may safely lean on him that 
grieves: 
The pine has immemorially sighed. 

The enduring poplar's are the trembling 
leaves. 

To feel, and bow the head, is not to fear; 

To cheat with jest — that is the coward's 
art: 
Beware the laugh that battles back the tear; 

He 's false to all that 's traitor to his heart. 

He of great deeds does grope amid the 
throng 
Like him whose steps toward Dagon's 
temple bore; 
There 's ever something sad about the 
strong — 
A look, a moan, like that on ocean's 
shore. 



EVERY ONE TO HIS OWN 
WAY 

Oak leaves are big as the mouse's ear. 
So, farmer, go plant. But the frost — 
Beware ! the witch o' the year, 
See that her palm be crossed. 
The bee is abroad, and the ant; 
Spider is busy; ho, farmer, go plant. 



The winds blow soft from the glazy sea, 
So, merchant, rig ship. But the wave — 
Beware ! salt water can be 
A highway, can be a grave. 
Bring silks for milady; a trip 
For wines and spices; ho, merchant, rig 
ship. 

I heard round oath at the churchyard door, 
So, preacher, go preach. But the Book — 
Say yea and nay, and no more; 
Look to the wording, look. 
A heaven and a hell within reach, 
'Tis one or the other; good preacher, go 
preach. 

Farmer, go till; ride, merchant, the sea; 
Good preacher, have at the mewed folk: 
From frost and storm be you free. 
And spared That Old Serpent's joke. 
I '11 sit in my doorway, God please. 
Quietly looking between the green trees. 

EVENING SONGS 

I 

The birds have hid, the winds are low, 
The brake is awake, the grass aglow: 
The bat is the rover. 
No bee on the clover, 
The day is over, 
And evening come. 

The heavy beetle spreads her wings. 
The toad has the road, the cricket sings: 
The bat Is the rover. 
No bee on the clover, 
The day is over. 
And evening come. 



It is that pale, delaying hour 
When nature closes like a flower, 
And on the spirit lies 
The silence of the earth and skies. 

The world has thoughts she will not own 
When shade and dream with night have 

flown; 
Bright overhead, a star 
Makes golden guesses what they are. 
also p. 586. 



5i6 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



in 

Now is Light, sweet mother, down the west, 
With little Song against her breast; 
She took him up, all tired with play, 
And fondly bore him far away. 

While he sleeps, one wanders in his stead, 
A fainter glory round her head; 
She follows happy waters after. 
Leaving behind low, rippling laughter. 

IV 

Behind the hilltop drops the sun, 
The curled heat falters on the sand, 
While evening's ushers, one by one, 
Lead in the guests of Twilight Land. 

The bird is silent overhead, 
Below the beast has laid him down; 
Afar, the marbles watch the dead, 
The lonely steeple guards the town. 

The south wind feels its amorous course 
To cloistered sweet in thickets found; 
The leaves obey its tender force, 
And stir 'twixt silence and a sound. 



THE SKILFUL LISTENER 

The skilful listener, he, methinks, may hear 
The grass blades clash in sunny field to- 
gether, 



The roses kissing, and the lily, whether 
It joy or sorrow in the summer's ear. 
The jewel dew -bells of the mead ring 

clear 
When morning lightly moves them in June 

weather. 
The flocked hours flitting by on stealthy 

feather, 
The last leaves' wail at waning of the 

year. 
Haply, from these we catch a passing 

sound, 
(The best of verities, perchance, but 

seem) 
We overhear close Nature, on her round, 
When least she thinks it ; bird and bough 

and stream 
Not only, but her silences profound, 
Surprised by softer footfall of our dream. 



WHITHER 

Whither leads this pathway, little one ? -r- 
It runs just on and on, is never done. 

Whither leads this pathway, mistress 

fair ? — 
That path to town, sir; to the village 

square. 

Whither leads this pathway, father old ? — 
To the white quiet of the churchyard 
fold. 



#. €♦ 31!utinger 



THE FLIGHT OF THE WAR- 
EAGLE 

The eagle of the armies of the West, 

Dying upon his alp, near to the sky, 

Through the slow days that paled the im- 
perial eye. 

But could not tame the proud fire of his 
breast, — 

Gone with the mighty pathos ! Only 
rest 

Remains where passed that struggle stern 
and high; 

Rest, silence, broken sometimes by the cry 



Of mother and eaglets round the ravaged 

nest. 
'T was when the death-cloud touched the 

mountain crest, 
A singer among the awed flocks cowering 

nigh. 
Looked up and saw against the sunrise 

sky_ 
An eagle, in ethereal plumage dressed. 
Break from the veil, and flame his buoyant 

flight 
Far toward the hills of heaven unveiled 

and bright. 
Jtily sj, 1883. 



O. C. AURINGER 



517 



THE BALLAD OF ORISKANY 

She leaned her cheek upon her hand, 
And looked across the glooming land; 
She saw the wood from farm to farm 
Touched by the twilight's ghostly charm; 
And heard the owl's cry sound forlorn 
Across the fields of waving corn, 
And sighed' with sad voice dreamily : 
Oriskany ! Oriskany ! 

The moonlight through the open door 
Laid its broad square upon the floor; 
A beetle plunging through the gloom 
Hummed fitfully within the room; 
Across the casement's opening 
Night creatures sped on purring wing, 
And still she murmured musically 
The fatal name, Oriskany. 

She raised her face to the dim night skies, 
A dream of peace was in her eyes; 
Like memory speaking from the dead 
Her voice seemed, as she spoke and said: 
" 'T is two years past this very morn 
That he came riding through the corn, 
With his gay comrades gallantly, 
To wed me in Oriskany. 

" At eve the rooms were all alight. 
The bride and bridesmaids clad in white, 
As we stood side by side apart, 
I trembling, but how blest at heart ! 
The lights, the flowers, the sparkling eyes, 
Were sweet to me as paradise ; 
The vows like music were to me, 
That bound us in Oriskany. 

" The feast that flowed mid converse fleet. 
The music and the dancing feet. 
The games that flew from room to room. 
The cries, the laughter, and the bloom, 
And in the midst, so fair and tall. 
My bridegroom, prince among them all, — 
'T was all one glad, sweet dream to me, 
That night in gay Oriskany. 

" And then the parting groups, the flight, 
The voices fading through the night; 
The homestead lying dim and lone. 
The rooms deserted, lights outblown; 
The holy hush wherein befell 
The things too wondrous dear to tell — 
O sacred fire of love ! Ah me — 
Oriskany ! Oriskany ! 



" The year went round, there came a 

guest — 
A lovely babe lay on my breast, — 
Ah, we were blest ! Then came the sound 
Of drum and trump the valley round : 
'T was just one year ago this morn 
That he went armed across the corn, 
In strength of heart and patriot glee, 

To meet the foe on Oriskany. 

" Below the hill the battle broke; 
I heard the din, I saw the smoke; 
Road-weary bands paused at the door, 
And drank, and onward rode once more; 
Poor wounded souls came crawling by 
To find some quiet place to die; 
My heart beat proud but fearfully 
That day in wild Oriskany. 

" At eve, amid the drip of rain. 

They brought me home my soldier slain ! 

With calm great looks and quiet tread 

They came and laid him on my bed — 

As fair as life. A bloodless blow 

They said had slain him; but his foe 

He stabbed ere dying, through and 

through — 
My brave ! His country's enemy 

He smote on red Oriskany ! 

" My babe died with the dying year ; 
Two mounds have I in the churchyard 

near. 
But not a loving voice or form 
To keep the earth-flame in me warm; 
My dead life to the live world clings, 
I feel no joy in natural things, — 
Strangely has death mistaken me. 

Who died on dark Oriskany. 

" All day within t^ie homestead dim 
I think of him, I dream of him; 
My tasks of hands and feet and soul 
Lead true to him as to their goal ; 
In woman's heart God wrote it thus: 
That men should be as gods to us. 
I feel the pangs, the weakness see. 
Yet worship — in Oriskany. 

" I cannot think of him as dead 
Upon our one-year's bridal bed, 

Oriskany, Oriskany ! 
Nor dream of him within the tomb. 
Amid the willowed churchyard's gloom, 

Oriskany, Oriskany ! 



5i8 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



I see him as he passed that morn, 
Warm with all life, across the corn: 
'T is thus he shall return to me 

At last, far from Oriskany." 



APRIL 

Weary at heart with winter yesterday, 
I sought the fields for something green to 

see, 
Some budded turf or mossbank quietly 
Uncovered in the sweet familiar way. 



Crossing a pasture slope that sunward lay, 
I suddenly surprised beneath a tree 
A girlish creature who at sight of me 
Sprang up all wild with daintiest dismay. 
" Stay, pretty one ! " I cried, — " who art 

thou, pray ? " 
Mid tears and freaks of pettish misery. 
And sighing, "I am April," answered she; 
" I rear the field flowers for my sister 

May." 
Then with an arch laugh sidewise, clear 

and strong, 
Turned blithely up the valley with a song. 



€mma Sa^aru.i^ 



ON THE PROPOSAL TO ERECT 
A MONUMENT IN ENGLAND 
TO LORD BYRON 

The grass of fifty Aprils hath waved green 

Above the spent heart, the Olympian 

head, 

The hands crost idly, the shut eyes unseen. 

Unseeing, the locked lips whose song 

hath fled; 

Yet mystic-lived, like some rich, tropic 

flower. 
His fame puts forth fresh blossoms hour by 

hour; 
Wide spread the laden branches dropping 
dew 
On the low, laurelled brow misunder- 
stood. 
That bent not, neither bowed, until sub- 
dued 
By the last foe who crowned while he o'er- 
threw. • 

Fair was the Easter Sabbath morn when 
first 
Men heard he had not wakened to its 
light: 
The end had come, and time had done its 
worst, 
For the black cloud had fallen of endless 
night. 
Then in the town, as Greek accosted Greek, 
'Twas not the wonted festal words to speak, 
" Christ is arisen," but " Our chief is gone," 
With such wan aspect and grief-smitten 
head 



As when the awful cry of " Pan Is dead ! " 
Filled echoing hill and valley with its moan. 

" I am more fit for death than the world 
deems," 
So spake he as life's light was growing 
dim, 
And turned to sleep as unto soothing 
dreams. 
What terrors could its darkness hold for 
him, 
Familiar with all anguish, but with fear 
Still unacquainted ? On his martial bier 
They laid a sword, a helmet, and a crown — 
Meed of the warrior, but not these 

among 
His voiceless lyre, whose silent chords 
unstrung 
Shall wait — how long ? — for touches like 
his own. 

An alien country mourned him as her son. 
And hailed him hero: his sole, fitting 
tomb 
Were Theseus' temple or the Parthenon, 
Fondly she deemed. His brethren bare 
him home. 
Their exiled glory, past the guarded gate 
Where England's Abbey shelters England's 

great. 
Afar he rests whose very name hath shed 
New lustre on her with the song he sings. 
So Shakespeare rests who scorned to lie 
with kings, 
Sleeping at peace midst the unhonored 
dead. 



I 



EMMA LAZARUS 



519 



And fifty years suffice to overgrow 

With gentle memories the foul weeds of 
hate 
That shamed his grave. The world begins 
to know 
Her loss, and view with other eyes his 
fate. 
Even as the cunning workman brings to pass 
The sculptor's thought from out the un- 
wieldy mass 
Of shapeless marble, so Time lops away 
The stony crust of falsehood that con- 
cealed 
His just proportions, and, at last revealed, 
The statue issues to the light of day, 

Most beautiful, most human. Let them 
fling 
The first stone who are tempted even as 
he. 
And have not swerved. When did that 
rare soul sing 
The victim's shame, the tyrant's eulogy, 
The great belittle, or exalt the small, 
Or grudge his gift, his blood, to disenthrall 
The slaves of tyranny or ignorance ? 

Stung by fierce tongues himself, whose 

rightful fame 
Hath he reviled ? Upon what noble 
name 
Did the winged arrows of that barbed wit 
glance ? 

The years' thick, clinging curtains backward 
pull. 
And show him as he is, crowned with 
bright beams, 
" Beauteous, and yet not all as beautiful 

As he hath been or might be ; Sorrow seems 
Half of his immortality. '^ He needs 
No monument whose name and song and 

deeds 
Are graven in all foreign hearts; but she, 
His mother, England, slow and last to 

wake. 
Needs raise the votive shaft for her fame's 
sake : 
Hers is the shame if such forgotten be ! 



VENUS OF THE LOUVRE 

Down the long hall she glistens like a star, 
The foam-born mother of Love, transfixed 
to stone, 



Yet none the less immortal, breathing on. 

Time's brutal hand hath maimed but could 
not mar. 

When first the enthralled enchantress from 
afar 

Dazzled mine eyes, I saw not her alone. 

Serenely poised on her world-worshipped 
throne. 

As when she guided once her dove-drawn 
car, — 

But at her feet a pale, death-stricken Jew, 

Her life adorer, sobbed farewell to love. 

Here Heine wept \^ Here still he weeps 
anew, 

Nor ever shall his shadow lift or move. 

While mourns one ardent heart, one poet- 
brain, 

For vanished Hellas and Hebraic pain. 



THE CRANES OF IBYCUS 

There was a man who watched the river 

flow 
Past the huge town, one gray November 

day. 
Round him in narrow high-piled streets 

at play 
The boys made merry as they saw him 

go. 
Murmuring half-loud, with eyes upon the 

stream. 
The immortal screed he held within his 

hand. 
For he was walking in an April land 
With Faust and Helen. Shadowy as a 

dream 
Was the prose-world, the river and the 

town. 
Wild joy possessed him; through enchanted 

skies 
He saw the cranes of Ibycus swoop down. 
He closed the page, he lifted up his eyes, 
Lo — a black line of birds in wavering 

thread 
Bore him the greetings of the deathless 

dead ! 



THE BANNER OF THE JEW 

Wake, Israel, wake ! Recall to-day 
The glorious Maccabean rage, 

The sire heroic, hoary-gray. 
His five-fold lion-lineasre,- 



520 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



The Wise, the Elect, the Help-of-God, 
The Burst-of-Spring, the Avenging Rod.^ 

From Mizpeh's mountain-ridge they saw 
Jerusalem's empty streets, her shrine 

Laid waste where Greeks profaned the Law 
With idol and with pagan sign. 

Mourners in tattered black were there, 

With ashes sprinkled on their hair. 

Then from the stony peak there rang 
A blast to ope the graves: down poured 

The Maccabean clan, who sang 
Their battle-anthem to the Lord. 

Five heroes lead, and, following, see 

Ten thousand rush to victory ! 

Oh for Jerusalem's trumpet now, 
To blow a blast of shattering power, 

To wake the sleepers high and low. 
And rouse them to the urgent hour ! 

No hand for vengeance — but to save, 

A million naked swords should wave. 

Oh deem not dead that martial fire. 
Say not the mystic flame is spent ! 

With Moses' law and David's lyre. 
Your ancient strength remains unbent. 

Let but an Ezra rise anew. 

To lift the Banner of the Jew ! 

A rag, a mock at first — erelong, 

When men have bled and women wept. 

To guard its precious folds from wrong, 
Even they who shrunk, even they who slept. 

Shall leap to bless it, and to save. 

Strike ! for the brave revere the brave ! 

THE CROWING OF THE RED 
COCK 

Across the Eastern sky has glowed 
The flicker of a blood-red dawn; 

Once more the clarion cock has crowed, 
Once more the sword of Christ is drawn. 

A million burning roof-trees light 

The world-wide path of Israel's flight. 

Where is the Hebrew's fatherland ? 

The folk of Christ is sore, bestead; 
The Son of Man' is bruised and banned. 

Nor finds whereon to lay his head. 
His cup is gall, his meat is tears. 
His passion lasts a thousand years. 

1 The sons of Matthias — Jonathan, John, Eleazar, 



Each crime that wakes in man the beast, 

Is visited upon his kind. 
The lust of mobs, the greed of priest, 

The tyranny of kings, combined 
To root his seed from earth again, 
His record is one cry of pain. 

When the long roll of Christian guilt 
Against his sires and kin is known. 

The flood of tears, the life-blood spilt, 
The agony of ages shown. 

What oceans can the stain remove 

From Christian law and Christian -love ? 

Nay, close the book; not now, not here, 
The hideous tale of sin narrate; 

Reechoing in the martyr's ear, 

Even he might nurse revengeful hate, 

Even he might turn in wrath sublime. 

With blood for blood and crime for crime. 

Coward ? Not he, who faces death, 
Who singly against worlds has fought. 

For what ? A name he may not breathe. 
For liberty of prayer and thought. 

The angry sword he will not whet, 

His nobler task is — to forget. 

THE NEW EZEKIEL 

What, can these dead bones live, whose 
sap is dried 
By twenty scorching centuries of wrong ? 
Is this the House of Israel, whose pride 
Is as a tale that 's told, an ancient song ? 
Are these ignoble relics all that live 

Of psalmist, priest, and prophet ? Can 
the breath 
Of very heaven bid these bones revive. 
Open the graves and clothe the ribs of 
death ? 

Yea, Prophesy, the Lord hath said. Again 
Say to the wind. Come forth and breathe 
afresh. 
Even that they may live upon these slain. 
And bone to bone shall leap, and flesh to 
flesh. 
The Spirit is not dead, proclaim the word, 
Where lay dead bones, a host of armed 
men stand ! 
I ope your graves, my people, saith the 
Lord, 
And I shall place you living in your land. 
Simon (also called the Jewel), and Judas, the Prince. 



GRACE DENIO LITCHFIELD — FRANCIS SALTUS SALTUS 521 



45racc 2Dcnio Slitcfjfiriti 



MY LETTER 

From far away, from far away, 
It journeyed swiftly night and day, 
It rested not. With cruel haste 
It crossed the ocean's trackless waste. 
It swerved no moment in its flight 
Through mist and storm and deepest night. 
No mercy prompted it to stay. 
No pity moved it to delay. 
O'er seas that rose up to detain, 
Silent as Death it sped amain. 
Through cities crowding close and strong, 
Undazed, untired, it fled along. 
No voice cried out through all the land. 
Great Heaven saw, yet stirred no hand. 
No angel, kinder than the rest, 
Held his white shield before my breast. 
Across the land, across the sea. 
Straight, swift, and sure, it came to me ! 
Unlet, unhindered, undeterred, 
Straight, swift, and sure, it brought me 
word ! 



TO A HURT CHILD 

What, are you hurt, Sweet ? So am I; 

Cut to the heart; 
Though I may neither moan nor cry, 

To ease the smart. 

Where was it. Love ? Just here ! So 
wide 

Upon your cheek ! 
Oh happy pain that needs no pride. 

And may dare speak. 

Lay here your pretty head. One touch 
Will heal its worst, 



While I, whose wound bleeds overmuch, 
Go all unnursed. 

There, Sweet. Run back now to your play, 

Forget your woes. 
I too was sorely hurt this day, — 

But no one knows. 



MY OTHER ME 

Children, do you ever. 
In walks by land or sea, 

Meet a little maiden 
Long time lost to me ! 

She is gay and gladsome. 

Has a laughing face. 
And a heart as sunny ; 

And her name is Grace. 

Naught she knows of sorrow. 
Naught of doubt or blight; 

Heaven is just above her — 
All her thoughts are white. 

Long time since I lost her. 
That other Me of mine; 

She crossed into Time's shadow 
Out of Youth's sunshine. 

Now the darkness keeps her; 

And, call her as I will. 
The years that lie between us 

Hide her from me still. 

I am dull and pain-worn. 
And lonely as can be — 

Oh, children, if you meet her, 
Send back my other Me ! 



f rancid ^a\tu0 ^altu^ 



THE ANDALUSIAN SERENO 

With oaken staff and swinging lantern 
bright. 
He strolls at midnight when the world 
is still 



Through dismal lanes and plazas plumed 
with light. 
Guarding the drowsy thousands in Seville. 

Gazing upon his ever star-thronged sky, 
With careless step he wanders to and fro; 



522 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



The gloomy streets reecho with his cry, 
His slow, low, sad, and dreary " Se-re-no ! " 

He sees the blond moon fleck the rosy 
towers 
Of old giralda with its opal sheen, 
And in broad alamedas, warm with flowers, 
He sees the Moorish cypress bend and 
lean. 

Then, vaguely dreaming, he recalls the 
nights 
His father passed beneath those very 
stars. 
The tales of escaladed walls, the fights, 
The mirth, the songs, the Babel of 
guitars ! 

And all his sire had told him years ago. 
How, often, in the gardens dim and dark, 

He met full many a mantled Romeo, 

And stumbled over corpses cold aiad 

stark. 

But he, alas ! had heard no serenade; 
No ladder hangs from Donna Linda's 
bars, 
And the wan glint of an assassin's blade 
He ne'er has seen beneath these quiet 
stars. 

So, weary, in the dead calm of the town. 
His soul regrets the Past's romantic 
glow. 
While mute, despondent, pacing up and 
down, 
He sadly moans his dreary " Se-re-no ! " 

But sonotetimes in the grayish light of dawn 
He stops and trembles in his clinging 
cape. 
For he can see a lady's curtain drawn, 
And, in the street below, a phantom 
shape. 

Draped in quaint, antique garb, with sword 
and glove. 
Sombrero vast, and mandolin on arm, 
Which seems to play a weird, wild lay of 
love, 
And at his coming shows no quick alarm; 

But turns, and there a skeleton, all lean 
And haggard, leers within the lightless 
lane ! 



And the Sereno knows that he has seen 
The spectre of the Past, the ghost of 
Spain. 



THE SPHINX SPEAKS 

Carved by a mighty race whose vanished 

hands 
Formed empires more destructible than I, 
In sultry silence I forever lie, 
Wrapped in the shifting garment of the 

sands. 
Below me, Pharaoh's scintillating bands 
With clashings of loud cymbals have passed 

by, 

And the eternal reverence of the sky 
Falls royally on me and all my lands. 
The record of the future broods in me; 
I have with worlds of blazing stars been 

crowned, 
But none my subtle mystery hath known 
Save one, who made his way through blood 

and sea. 
The Corsican, prophetic and renowned, 
To whom I spake, one awful night alone! 



THE BAYADERE 

Near strange, weird temples, where the 
Ganges' tide 

Bathes domed Lahore, I watched, by spice- 
trees fanned, 

Her agile form in some quaint saraband, 

A marvel of passionate chastity and 
pride. 

Nude to the loins, superb and leopard- 
eyed. 

With fragrant roses in her jewelled hand, 

Before some Kaat-drunk Rajah, mute and 
grand. 

Her flexile body bends, her white feet 
glide. 

The dull Kinoors throb one monotonous 
tune, 

And wail with zeal as in a hasheesh 
trance; 

Her scintillant eyes in vague, ecstatic 
charm 

Burn like black stars below the Orient 
moon, 

While the suave, dreamy languor of the 
dance 

Lulls the grim, drowsy cobra on her arm. 



FRANCIS SALTUS SALTUS — LUCY WHITE JENNISOM 523 



PASTEL 

Among the priceless gems and treasures 

rare 
Old Versailles shelters in its halls sublime, 
I can recall one faded image fair, 
A girl's sad face, praised once in every 

clime. 
Poets have sung, in rich and happy rhyme. 
Her violet eyes, the wonder of her hair. 
An art -bijou it vras, but dimmed by 

time, 
A dreamy pastel of La Valliere ! 
I, too, remember in my heart a face 
Whose charm I deemed would ever with 

me dwell ; 
But as the days went by, its peerless 

grace 
Fled like those dreams that blooming dawn 

dispel, 
Till of its beauty there was left no 

trace. 
Time having blurred it like that pale 

pastel ! 



THE IDEAL 

Toil on, poor muser, to attain that goal 
Where Art conceals its grandest, noblest 

prize ; 
Count every tear that dims your aching 

eyes, 
Count all the years that seem as days, and 

roll 
The death-tides slowly on; count all your 

sighs ; 
Search the wide, wondrous earth from pole 

to pole. 
Tear unbelief from out your martyred soul ; 
Succumb not, chase despondency, be wise ; 
Work, toil, and struggle with the brush or 

pen, 
Revel in rhyme, strain intellect and ken; 
Live on and hope despite man's sceptic 

leers; 
Praise the Ideal with your every breath. 
Give it life, youth and glory, blood and 

tears. 
And to possess it pay its tribute — Death. 



(" OWEN INNSLEY ") 



A DREAM OF DEATH 

HELENA 

" Du hast mich beschworen aus dem Grab " 

I died; they wrapped me in a shroud. 
With hollow mourning, far too loud, 
And sighs that were but empty sound. 
And laid me loW within the ground. 
I felt her tears through all the rest; 
Past sheet and shroud they reached my 

breast; 
They warmed to life the frozen clay, 
And I began to smile and say: 

At last thou lov'st me, Helena ! 

I rose up in the dead of night; 

I sought her window ; — 't was alight. 

A pebble clattered 'gainst the pane, — 

" Who 's there ? the wind and falling 

rain ? " 
" Ah ! no; but one thy tears have led 
To leave his chill and narrow bed 



To warm himself before thy breath ; 
Who for thy sake has conquered death. 
Arise, and love me, Helena ! " 

She oped the door, she drew me in. 
Her mouth was pale, her cheek was thin; 
Her eyes were dim; its length unrolled, 
Fell loosely down her hair of gold. 
My presence wrought her grief's eclipse ; 
She pressed her lips upon my lips, 
She held me fast in her embrace. 
Her hands went wandering o'er my face: 
At last thou lov'st me, Helena ! 

The days are dark, the days are cold, 
And heavy lies the churchyard mould. 
But ever, at the deep of night, 
Their faith the dead and living plight. 
Who would not die if certain bliss 
Could be foreknown ? and such as this 
No life — away ! the hour is nigh. 
With heart on fire she waits my cry: 
Arise, and love me, Helena ! 



524 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



BONDAGE 

"And this is freedom!" cried the serf; 

" At last 
I tread free soil, the free air blows on me ; " 
And, wild to learn the sweets of liberty, 
With eager hope his bosom bounded fast. 
But not for naught had the long years 

amassed 
Habit of slavery; among the free 
He still was servile, and, disheartened, he 
Crept back to the old bondage of the past. 
Long did I bear a hard and heavy chain 
Wreathed with amaranth and asphodel. 
But through the flower-breaths stole the 

weary pain. 
I cast it oflE and fled, but 't was in vain; 
For when once more I passed by where it 

fell, 
I took it up and bound it on again. 



THE BURDEN OF LOVE 

I BEAR an unseen burden constantly; 
Waking or sleeping I can never thrust 
The load aside ; through summer's heat and 

dust 
And winter's snows it still abides with 

me. 
I cannot let it fall, though I should be 
Never so weary; carry it I must. 
Nor can the bands that bind it on me 

rust 
Or break, nor ever shall I be set free. 
Sometimes 't is heavy as the weight that 

bore 
Atlas on giant shoulders; sometimes light 
As the frail message of the carrier dove; 
But, light or heavy, shifting nevermore. 
What is it thus oppressing, day and night ? 
The burden, dearest, of a mighty love. 



Haura aBIi$atiet|) aicfjattijsf 



A SONG OF TWO ANGELS 



Two 



through the gate of 



angels came 
Heaven. 
(White and soft is a mother's breast !) 

Stayed them both by the gate of Heaven; 
Rested a little on folded wings. 
Spake a little of holy things. 
(In Heaven alone is perfect rest !) 

Over them rose the golden steeps. 
Heaven's castled and golden steeps; 
Under them, depth on depth of space 
Fell away from the holy place. 

" Brother, and now I must take my way, 
Glad and joyful must take my way, 
Down to the realm of day and night; 
Down to yon earth that rolls so bright." 

" Brother, I too am thither sent; 
Sad and silent, am thither sent. 
Let us together softly wing 
Our flight to yon world of sorrowing." 

Down they swept through the shining air, 
Swiftly sped through the shining air, — 
This one bright as the sunset's glow, 
That one white as the falling snow. 



" Brother, and tell me your errand now ! 
Tell me your joyful errand now ! " 
" A little new soul must wake on earth, 
And I carry the blessing for its birth." 

"And tell me, brother, what task is yours ? 
Dear white angel, what task is yours ? " 
" To bear a soul back to Heaven's height, — 
A mother, whose child is born to-night." 

" Ah ! will the mother be sad to go ? 
Loath to leave her baby and go ? " 
" Hush, dear angel ! she will not know. 
God in His mercy wills it so." 

" Ah ! will the baby wake forlorn ? 
Seek its mother, and weep forlorn ? " 
" Hush, dear angel ! we may not know. 
God, knowing all things, wills it so." 

Down they swept through the dusky air. 
Swiftly sped through the dusky air; 
Trod the dim earth with noiseless feet; 
Softly stole through a village street. 

Now they came to a cottage door, 
Stayed them both at a cottage door, — 
This one bright as the sunset's glow, 
That one white as the falling snow. 



LAURA ELIZABETH RICHARDS — GEORGE HOUGHTON 



525 



" Brother, I trow we here must part ! 
Dear white angel, we here must part ! 
For this low door I must enter by." 
" Alas ! and alas ! so too must I ! " 

Sad they gazed in each other's face; 
(White and soft is a mother's breast;) 

Lingered and looked in each other's 
face ; 
Then folded their hands in silent prayer, 

And so together they entered there. 
(In Heaven alone is perfect rest.) 



WHERE HELEN SITS^ 

Where Helen sits, the darkness is so 
deep, 
No golden sunbeam strikes athwart the 
gloom ; 
No mother's smile, no glance of loving 
eyes, 
Lightens the shadow of that lonely room. 

Yet the clear whiteness of her radiant 
soul 
Decks the dim walls, like angel vestments 
shed. 
The lovely light of holy innocence 

Shines like a halo round her bended head. 
Where Helen sits. 



Where Helen sits, the stillness is so deep. 
No children's laughter comes, no song of 
bird. 

The great world storms along its noisy way. 
But in this place no sound is ever heard. 

Yet do her gentle thoughts make melody 
Sweeter than aught from harp or viol 
flung; 
And Love and Beauty, quiring each to each, 
Sing as the stars of Eden's morning sung, 
Where Helen sits. 



A VALENTINE 

Oh ! little loveliest lady mine. 

What shall I send for your valentine ? 

Summer and flowers are far away; 

Gloomy old Winter is king to-day; 

Buds will not blow, and sun will not shine: 

What shall I do for a valentine ? 

I 've searched the gardens all through and 

through 
For a bud to tell of my love so true; 
But buds are asleep, and blossoms are dead. 
And the snow beats down on my poor little 

head: 
So, little loveliest lady mine, 
Here is my heart for your valentine ! 



<Scorgc jpouglSjton 



SANDY HOOK 

White sand and cedars ; cedars, sand ; 
Light-houses here and there; a strand 
Strewn o'er with driftwood ; tangled weeds ; 
A squad of fish-hawks poised above 
The nets, too anxious-eyed to move ; 
Flame-flowering cactus; winged seeds, 
That on a sea of sunshine lie 
Unfanned, save by some butterfly; 
A sun now reddening toward the west; — 
And under and through all one hears 
That mellow voice, old as the years. 
The waves' low monotone of unrest. 
So wanes the summer afternoon 
In drowsy stillness, and the moon 
Appears; when, sudden, round about 

1 Helen 



The wind-cocks wheel, — hoarse fog-horns 

shout 
A warning, and in gathering gloom 
Against the sea's white anger loom 
Tall shapes of wreckers, torch in hand. 
Rattling their life-boats down the sand I 



THE HANDSEL RING 

" Here, O lily-white lady mine, 
Here by thy warrior sire's own shrine, 
Handsel I thee by this golden sign, 

This sunshiny thing." 
Weeping she reached her hand so slim. 
Smiled, though her eyes were wet and 

dim, 
Keller. 



526 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Saying: " I swear, by Heaven, by him, 
And by this handsel ring ! " 

But as she bended her eyes abashed, 
Out of his fingers the jewel flashed. 
On the gray flags of the kirk it clashed. 

That treacherous thing; 
Clashed, and bounded, and circled, and 

sped, 
Till through a crevice it flamed and fled, — 
Down in the tomb of the knightly dead 
Darted the handsel ring. 

" Matters not, darling ! Ere day be o'er. 
Goldsmiths shall forge for thy hands a 

score ; 
Let not thy heart be harried and sore 

For a little thing ! " 
" Nay ! but behold what broodeth there ! 
See the cold sheen of his silvery hair ! 
Look how his eyeballs roll and stare. 
Seeking thy handsel ring ! " 

" I see nothing, my precious, my own ! 
'Tis a black vision that sorrow hath sown; 
Haste, let us hence, for dark it hath grown, 

And moths are on wing." 
*' Nay, but his shrunken fist, behold, 
Looses his lance-hilt and scatters the mould ! 



What is that his long fingers hold ? 

Christ ! 't is our handsel ring ! " 

And when the bridegroom bends over her, 
Neither the lips nor the eyelids stir; 
Naught to her, now, but music and 
myrrh, — 

Needless his handsel ring. 



THE MANOR LORD 

Beside the landsman knelt a dame, 

And slowly pushed the pages o'er; 
Still by the hearth-fire's spending flame 

She waited, while a hollow roar 
Came from the chimney, and the breath 

Of twice seven hounds upon the floor; 
And, save the old man's labored moan, 

The night had no sound more. 

The fire flickered; with a start 

The master hound upflung his head; 
Sudden he whined, when with one spring 

Each hunter bounded from his bed, — 
And through rent blind and bolted door 

All voiceless every creature fled; 
The blinking watcher closed her book: 

" Amen, our lord is dead ! " 



€ii0cnc 5ficlti 



WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD 

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night 

Sailed off in a wooden shoe, — 
Sailed on a river of crystal light 

Into a sea of dew. 
" Where are you going, and what do you 
wish ? " 
The old moon asked the three. 
•' We have come to fish for the herring-fish 
That live in this beautiful sea; 
Nets of silver and gold have we," 
Said Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And Nod. 

The old moon laughed and sang a song. 
As they rocked in the wooden shoe; 

And the wind that sped them all night long 
Ruffled the waves of dew ; 

The little stars were the herring-fish 
That lived in the beautiful sea. 



" Now cast your nets wherever you wish, — 
Never afeard are we ! " 
So cried the stars to the fishermen three, 

Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And Nod. 

All night long their nets they threw 

To the stars in the twinkling foam, — 
Then down from the skies came the wooden 
shoe. 
Bringing the fishermen home: 
'T was all so pretty a sail, it seemed 

As if it could not be ; 
And sonae folk thought 'twas a dream 
they 'd dreamed 
Of sailing that beautiful sea; 
But I shall name you the fishermen 
three : 

Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And Nod. 



EUGENE FIELD 



527 



Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, 

And Nod is a little head, 
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies 

Is a wee one's trundle-bed; 
So shut your eyes while Mother sings 

Of wonderful sights that be, 
And you shall see the beautiful things 
As you rock on the misty sea 
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen 
three, — 

Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And Nod. 

GARDEN AND CRADLE 

When our babe he goeth walking in his 
garden, 
Around his tinkling feet the sunbeams 
play; 

The posies they are good to him, 
And bow them as they should to him, 
As fareth he upon his kingly way; 

And birdlings of the wood to him 
Make music, gentle music, all the day, 
When our babe he goeth walking in his 
garden. 

When our babe he goeth swinging in his 
cradle. 
Then the night it looketh ever sweetly 
down; 
The little stars are kind to him, 
The moon she hath a mind to him. 
And layeth on his head a golden crown; 

And singeth then the wind to him 
A song, the gentle song of Bethle'm town. 
When our babe he goeth swinging in his 
cradle. 

IN THE FIRELIGHT 

The fire upon the hearth is low, 
And there is stillness everywhere. 
And, like winged spirits, here and there 

The firelight shadows fluttering go. 

And as the shadows round me creep, 
A childish treble breaks the gloom. 
And softly from a further room 

Comes: " Now I lay me down to sleep." 

And, somehow, with that little prayer 
And that sweet treble in my ears. 
My thought goes back to distant years. 

And lingers with a dear one there; 



And as I hear my child's amen. 

My mother's faith comes back to me, 
Crouched at her side I seem to be, 

And mother holds my hands again. 

Oh for an hour in that dear place, 
Oh for the peace of that dear time, 
Oh for that childish trust sublime, 

Oh for a glimpse of mother's face ! 

Yet, as the shadows round me creep, 
I do not seem to be alone — 
Sweet magic of that treble tone 

And " Now 1 lay me down to sleep ! " 



NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT 

The mill goes toiling slowly around 

With steady and solemn creak. 
And my little one hears in the kindly sound 

The voice of the old mill speak. 
While round and round those big white 
wings 

Grimly and ghostlike creep. 
My little one hears that the old mill sings 

" Sleep, little tulip, sleep ! " 

The sails are reefed and the nets are drawn. 

And, over his pot of beer. 
The fisher, against the morrow's dawn. 

Lustily maketh cheer. 
He mocks at the winds that caper along 

From the far-off clamorous deep, — 
But we — we love their lullaby song 

Of " Sleep, little tulip, sleep ! " 

Old dog Fritz in slumber sound 

Groans of the stony mart: 
To-morrow how proudly he '11 trot you 
round. 

Hitched to our new milk-cart ! 
And you shall help me blanket the kine 

And fold the gentle sheep. 
And set the herring a-soak in brine, — 

But now, little tulip, sleep ! 

A Dream-One comes to button the eyes 

That wearily droop and blink. 
While the old mill buffets the frowning 
skies 

And scolds at the stars that wink; 
Over your face the misty wings 

Of that beautiful Dream-One sweep, 
And rocking your cradle she softly sings 

" Sleep, little tulip, sleep ! " 



528 SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 


THE DINKEY-BIRD 


LITTLE BOY BLUE 


In an ocean, 'way out yonder 


The little toy dog is covered with dust, 


(As all sapient people know,) 


But sturdy and stanch he stands; 


Is the land of Wonder-wander, 


And the little toy soldier is red with 


Whither children love to go: 


rust, 


It 's their playing, romping, swinging, 


And his musket moulds in his hands. 


That give great joy to me 


Time was when the little toy dog was 


While the Dinkey-Bird goes singing 


new, 


In the amfalula tree ! 


And the soldier was passing fair; 




And that was the time when our Little 


There the gum-drops grow like cherries, 


Boy Blue 


And taffy 's thick as peas, — 


Kissed them and put them there. 


Caramels you pick like berries 




When, and where, and how you please; 


"Now, don't you go till I come," he said, 


Big red sugar-plums are clinging 


" And don't you make any noise ! " 


To the cliffs beside that sea 


So, toddling off to his trundle-bed, 


Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing 


He dreamt of the pretty toys; 


In the amfalula tree. 


And, as he was dreaming, an angel song 




Awakened our Little Boy Blue — 


So when children shout and scamper 


Oh ! the years are many, the years are 


And make merry all the day, 


long, 


When there 's naught to put a damper 


But the little toy friends are true ! 


To the ardor of their play; 




.When I hear their laughter ringing. 


Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, 


Then I 'm sure as sure can be 


Each in the same old place, 


That the Dinkey-Bird is singing 


Awaiting the touch of a little hand. 


In the amfalula tree. 


The smile of a little face; 




And they wonder, as waiting the long years 


For the Dinkey-Bird's bravuras 


through 


And staccatos are so sweet, — 


In the dust of that little chair, 


His roulades, appoggiaturas. 


What has become of our Little Boy Blue, 


And robustos so complete. 


Since he kissed them and put them 


That the youth of every nation — 


there. 


Be they near or far away — 




Have especial delectation 




In that gladsome roundelay. 


THE LYTTEL BOY 


Their eyes grow bright and brighter, 


Some time there ben a lyttel boy 


Their lungs begin to crow, 


That wolde not renne and play. 


Their hearts get light and lighter, 


And helpless like that little tyke 


And their cheeks are all aglow; 


Ben allwais in the way. 


For an echo cometh bringing 


" Goe, make you merrie with the rest," 


The news to all and me. 


His weary moder cried; 


That the Dinkey-Bird is singing 


But with a frown he catcht her gown 


In the amfalula tree. 


And hong untill her side. 


I 'm sure you like to go there 


That boy did love his moder well. 


To see your feathered friend, — 


Which spake him faire, I ween; 


And so many goodies grow there 


He loved to stand and hold her hand 


You would like to comprehend ! 


And ken her with his een; 


Speed, little dreams, your winging 


His cosset bleated in the croft, 


To that land across the sea 


His toys unheeded lay, — 


Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing 


He wolde not goe, but, tarrying see, 


In the amfalula tree 1 


Ben allwais in the way. 



EUGENE FIELD 



529 



Godde loveth children and doth gird 

His throne with soche as these, 
And he doth smile in plaisaunce while 

They cluster at his knees; 
And some time, when he looked on earth 

And watched the bairns at play, 
He kenned with joy a lyttel boy 

Ben allwais in the way. 

And then a moder felt her heart 

How that it ben to-torne. 
She kissed eche day till she ben gray 

The shoon he use to worn ; 
No bairn let hold untill her gown 

Nor played upon the floore, — 
Godde's was the joy; a lyttel boy 

Ben in the way no more ! 



OUR TWO OPINIONS 

Us two wuz boys when we fell out, — 

Nigh to the age uv my youngest now; 
Don't rec'lect what 't wuz about. 

Some small deefE'rence, I'll allow. 
Lived next neighbors twenty years, 

A-hatin' each other, me 'nd Jim, — 
He havin' his opinyin nv me, 

'Nd 1 havin' my opinyin uv Mm. 

Grew lip together 'nd would n't speak. 

Courted sisters, 'nd marr'd 'em, too; 
'Tended same meetin'-house oncet a week, 

A-hatin' each other through 'nd through ! 
But when Abe Linkern asked the West 

F'r soldiers, we answered, — me 'nd 
Jim, — 
He havin' his opinyin uv me, 

'Nd / havin' my opinyin uv him. 

But down in Tennessee one night 

Ther' wuz sound uv firin' fur away, 
'Nd the sergeant allowed ther' 'd be a fight 

With the Johnnie Rebs some time nex' 
day; 
'Nd as I wuz thinkin' uv Lizzie 'nd home 

Jim stood afore me, long 'nd slim, — 
He havin' his opinyin uv me, 

'Nd / havin' my opinyin uv him. 

Seemed like we knew there wuz goin' to 
be 

Serious trouble f'r me 'nd him ; 
Us two shuck hands, did Jim 'nd me, 

But never a word from me or Jim ! 



He went his way 'nd / went mine, 
'Nd into the battle's roar went we, — 

/ havin' my opinyin uv Jim, 

'Nd he bavin' his opinyin uv me. 

Jim never come back from the war again, 

But I hain't forgot that last, last night 
When, waitin' f'r orders, us two men 

Made up 'nd shuck hands, afore the 
fight. 
'Nd, after it all, it 's soothin' to know 

That here / be 'nd yonder 's Jim, — 
He havin' his opinyin uv me, 

'Nd / havin' my opinyin uv him. 



THE BIBLIOMANIAC'S PRAYER 

Keep me, I pray, in wisdom's way, 

That I may truths eternal seek; 
I need protecting care to-day, — 

My purse is light, my flesh is weak. 
So banish from my erring heart 

All baleful appetites and hints 
Of Satan's fascinating art, 

Of first editions, and of prints. 
Direct me in some godly walk 

Which leads away from bookish strife, 
That I with pious deed and talk 

May exitra-illustrate my life. 

But if, O Lord, it pleaseth Thee 

To keep me in temptation's way, 
I humbly ask that I may be 

Most notably beset to-day; 
Let my temptation be a book, 

Which I shall purchase, hold, and keep, 
Whereon, when other men shall look, 

They '11 wail to know I got it cheap. 
Oh, let it such a volume be 

As in rare copperplates abounds. 
Large paper, clean, and fair to see. 

Uncut, unique, unknown to Lowndes. 



DIBDIN'S GHOST 

Dear wife, last midnight, whilst I read 

The tomes you so despise, 
A spectre rose beside the bed, 

And spake in this true wise: 
" From Canaan's beatific coast 

I 've come to visit thee. 
For I am Frognall Dibdin's ghost," 

Says Dibdin's ghost to me. 



53° 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



I bade him welcome, and we twain 

Discussed with buoyant hearts 
The various things that appertain 

To bibliomaniac arts. 
*' Since you are fresh from t'other side, 

Pray tell me of that host 
That treasured books before they died," 

Says I to Dibdin's ghost. 

" They Ve entered into perfect rest; 

For in the life they 've won 
There are no auctions to molest. 

No creditors to dun. 
Their heavenly rapture has no bounds 

Beside that jasper sea; 
It is a joy unknown to Lowndes," 

Says Dibdin's ghost to me. 

Much I rejoiced to hear him speak 

Of biblio-bliss above, 
For I am one of those who seek 

What bibliomaniacs love. 
" But tell me, for I long to hear 

What doth concern me most. 
Are wives admitted to that sphere ? " 

Says I to Dibdin's ghost. 

"The women folk are few up there; 

For 't were not fair, you know, 
That they our heavenly joy should share 

Who vex us here below. 
The few are those who have been kind 

To husbands such as we; 
They knew our fads, and did n't mind," 

Says Dibdin's ghost to me. 

" But what of those who scold at us 

When we would read in bed ? 
Or, wanting victuals, make a fuss 

If we buy books instead ? 
And what of those who've dusted not 

Our motley pride and boast, — 
Shall they profane that sacred spot ? " 

Says I to Dibdin's ghost. 

" Oh, no ! they tread that other path. 

Which leads where torments roll. 
And worms, yes, bookworms, vent their 
wrath 

Upon the guilty soul. 
Untouched of bibliomaniac grace. 

That savetb such as we. 
They wallow in that dreadful place," 

Says Dibdin's ghost to me. 

" To my dear wife will I recite 
What things I 've heard you say ; 



She '11 let me read the books by night 

She 's let me buy by day. 
For we together by and by 

Would join that heavenly host; 
She 's earned a rest as well as I," 

Says I to Dibdin's ghost. 



ECHOES FROM THE SABINE 

FARM 

TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA 

FOUNTAIN of Bandusia ! 

Whence crystal waters flow, 
With garlands gay and wine I '11 pay 

The sacrifice I owe; 
A sportive kid with budding horns 

I have, whose crimson blood 
Anon shall dye and sanctify 

Thy cool and babbling flood. 

O fountain of Bandusia ! 

The Dog-star's hateful spell 
No evil brings into the springs 

That from thy bosom well; 
Here oxen, wearied by the plow, 

The roving cattle here 
Hasten in quest of certain rest. 

And quaff thy gracious cheer. 

O fountain of Bandusia ! 

Ennobled shalt thou be. 
For I shall sing the joys that spring 

Beneath yon ilex-tree. 
Yes, fountain of Bandusia, 

Posterity shall know 
The cooling brooks that from thy nooks 

Singing and dancing go. 

TO LEUCONOE 

I 

W^HAT end the gods may have ordained 

for me. 
And what for thee. 

Seek not to learn, Leuconoe, — we ma 
not know. 
Chaldean tables cannot bring us rest. 
'T is for the best 

To bear in patience what may come, or 
weal or woe. 

If for more winters our poor lot is cast, 
Or this the last, 

Which on the crumbling rocks has dashed 
Etruscan seas, 



EUGENE FIELD — ROBERT BURNS WILSON 



531 



Strain clear the wine; this life is short, at 
best. 

Take hope with zest, 

And, trusting not To-morrow, snatch To- 
day for ease ! 



TO LEUCONOE 
II 



Seek not, Leuconoe, to know how long 

you 're going to live yet, 
What boons the gods will yet withhold, or 

what they 're going to give yet ; 



For Jupiter will have his way, despite how 

much we worry: — 
Some will hang on for many a day, and 

some die in a hurry. 

The wisest thing for you to do is to embark 

this diem 
Upon a merry escapade with some such 

bard as I am. 
And while we sport I '11 reel you off such 

odes as shall surprise ye; 
To-morrow, when the headache comes, — 

well, then I '11 satirize ye ! 



ifloBcrt 25urn^ IBil^on 



IT IS IN WINTER THAT WE 
DREAM OF SPRING 

It is in Winter that we dream of Spring; 
For all the barren bleakness and the cold. 
The longing fancy sees the frozen mould 

Decked with sweet blossoming. 

Though all the birds be silent, — though 

The fettered stream's soft voice be still, 
And on the leafless bough the snow 

Be rested, marble-like and chill, — 
Yet will the fancy build, from these, 

The transient but well-pleasing dream 
Of leaf and bloom among the trees, 

And sunlight glancing on the stream. 

Though, to the eye, the joyless landscape 
yields 
No faintest sign to which the hope might 
cling, — 
Amidst the pallid desert of the fields, — 
It is in Winter that we dream of Spring. 



THE DEAD PLAYER 

Sure and exact, — the master's quiet touch, 

Thus perfect, was his art; 
Ambitious, generous, sad, and loving much. 

Was his pain-haunted heart. 

To him, the blissful burthen of her love 
Did stern-browed Fortune give; 

In hell, in heaven, beneath life and above, 
Such souls as his must live. 



Who wears Fame's Tyrian garb, as well 
must wear 

The heavy robe of Grief; 
Who bears aloft the palm, must also bear 

Hid woundings past belief. 

Both he did wear and bear, as well as most 

Of Earth's soon-counted few 
That stand distinguished from the unknown 
host 

By having work to do. 

Souls seek their doom. A costly-freighted 
bark 
That sails a perilous sea. 
Rounds ev6ry bar, and goes down, in the 
dark 
At port, — e'en such was he. 

A classic shade, — he walks the unknown 
lands 

Death-silent and death-dim ; 
But, like a noble Phidian marble, stands 

The memory of him. 



TO A CROW 

Bold, amiable, ebon outlaw, grave and wise ! 
For many a good green year hast thou 

withstood — 
By dangerous, planted field and haunted 

wood — 
All the devices of thine enemies. 
Gleaning thy grudged bread with watchful 

eyes 



532 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD— DIVISION II 



And self-relying soul. Come ill or good, 
Blithe days thou see'st, thou feathered 

Kobin Hood ! 
Thou mak'st a jest of farm-land boundaries. 
Take all thou may'st, and never count it 

crime 
To rob the greatest robber of the earth, 
Weak-visioned, dull, self-lauding man, 

whose worth 
Is in his own esteem. Bide thou thy time; 
Thou know'st far more of Nature's lore 

than he, 
And her wide lap shall still provide for 

thee. 



THE SUNRISE OF THE POOR 

A DARKENED hut Outlined against the 

sky, 
A forward-looking slope, — some cedar 

trees, 
Gaunt grasses stirred by the awaking 

breeze. 
And nearer, where the grayer shadows lie, 
Within a small paled square, one may 

descry 
The beds wherein the Poor first taste of 

ease, 
Where dewy rose-vines drop their spicy 

lees 
Above the dreamless ashes, silently. 
A lonely woman leans there, — bent and 

gray: 
Outlined in part against the shadowed 

hill, 
In part against the sky, in which the day 
Begins to blaze. O earth, so sweet, — so 

still ! — 
The woman sighs, and draws a long, deep 

breath: 
It is the call to labor, — not to death. 



SUCH IS THE DEATH THE SOL- 
DIER DIES 

Such is the death the soldier dies: 
He falls, — the column speeds away; 

Upon the dabbled grass he lies, 
His brave heart following, still, the fray. 



The smoke - wraiths drift among the 
trees. 
The battle storms along the hill ; 

The glint of distant arms he sees; 
He hears his comrades shouting still. 

A glimpse of far-borne flags, that fade 
And vanish in the rolling din: 

He knows the sweeping charge is made, 
The cheering lines are closing in. 

Unmindful of his mortal wound, 
He faintly calls and seeks to rise; 

But weakness drags him to the ground: — 
Such is the death the soldier dies. 



BALLAD OF THE FADED FIELD 

Broad bars of sunset-slanted gold 
Are laid along the field, and here 

The silence sings, as if some old 

Refrain, that once rang long and clear, 
Came softly, stealing to the ear 

Without the aid of sound. The rill 
Is voiceless, and the grass is sere, 

But beauty's soul abideth still. 

Trance-like, the mellow air doth hold 

The sorrow of the passing year ; 
The heart of Nature groweth cold. 

The time of falling snow is near; 

On phantom feet, which none may hear, 
Creeps — with the shadow of the hill — 

The semblance of departed cheer. 
But beauty's soul abideth still. 

The dead, gray-clustered weeds enfold 

The well-known summer path, and drear 
The dusking hills, like billows rolled 

Against the distant sky, appear. 

From lonely haunts, where Night and Fear 
Keep ghostly tryst, when mists are chill. 

The dark pine lifts a jagged spear. 
But beauty's soul abideth still. 

ENVOY 

Dear love, the days that once were dear 
May come no more; life may fulfill 

Her fleeting dreams with many a tear. 
But beauty's soul abideth still. 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



533 



SCdo ^att^ 



AMERICA 

(from "the torch -bearers") 

For, O America, our country ! — land 
Hid in the west through centuries, till 
men 
Through countless tyrannies could under- 
stand 
The priceless worth of freedom, — once 
again 
The world was new-created when thy shore 
First knew the Pilgrim keels, that one 
last test 
The race might make of manhood, nor give 
o'er 
The strife with evil till it proved its 
best. 
Thy true sous stand as torch-bearers, to 
hold 
A guiding light. Here the last stand is 
made. 
If we fail here, what new Columbus bold. 
Steering brave prow through black seas 
unafraid. 
Finds out a fresh land where man may 
abide 
And freedom yet be saved ? The whole 
round earth 
Has seen the battle fought. Where shall 
men hide 
From tyranny and wrong, where life 
have worth, 
If here the cause succumb ? If greed of 
gold 
Or lust of power or falsehood triumph 
here, 
The race is lost ! A globe dispeopled, 
cold, 
Rolled down the void a voiceless, lifeless 
sphere, 
Were not so stamped by all which hope 
debars 
As were this earth, plunging along 
through space 
Conquered by evil, shamed among the 
stars. 
Bearing a base, enslaved, dishonored 
race ! 
Here has the battle its last vantage ground ; 
Here all is won, or here must all be 
lost, 



Here freedom's trumpets one last rally 
sound; 
Here to the breeze its blood-stained flag 
is tossed. 
America, last hope of man and truth. 
Thy name must through all coming ages 
be 
The badge unspeakable of shame and ruth, 
Or glorious pledge that man through 
truth is free. 
This is thy destiny; the choice is thine 

To lead all nations and outshine them all : 
But if thou failest, deeper shame is thine, 
And none shall spare to mock thee in 
thy fall. 



IN PARADISE 

" O PITYING angel, pause, and say 

To me, new come to Paradise, 
How I may drive one pain away 

By penitence or sacrifice. 
From deeps below of nether Hell 

I hear a lost soul's bitter cry: 
Alas ! It was through me she fell, — 

What price forgetfulness may buy ? " 

The passing angel paused in flight. 

Poised like fair stars which first arise, 
And looked on that pale suppliant white, 

With piercing pity in his eyes. 
"Ah, woe!" he said. "Thy joy and 
peace 

Cannot be bought with prayer or price. 
For thee that wail will never cease. 

Though thou hast won to Paradise ! " 



THE CYCLAMEN 

^OvER the plains where Persian hosts 
Laid down their lives for glory 

Flutter the cyclamens, like ghosts 
That witness to their story. 

Oh, fair ! Oh, white ! Oh, pure as snow ! 

On countless graves how sweet they grow ! 

Or crimson, like the cruel wounds 
From which the life-blood, flowing, 

Poured out where now on grassy mounds 
The low, soft winds are blowing: 



534 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Oh, fair ! Oh, red ! Like blood of slain ; 
Not even time can cleanse that stain. 

But when my dear these blossoms holds, 

All loveliness her dower, 
All woe and joy the past enfolds 

In her find fullest flower. 
Oh, fair ! Oh, pure ! Oh, white and red ! 
If she but live, what are the dead ! 



CONCEITS 



KITTY'S LAUGH 

Thy laugh 's a song an oriole trilled, 
Romping in glee the sky, — 

Sunshine in lucent drops distilled, 
And showered from on high. 

So perfect in his song thou art. 
That when thy laughter rings 

I long to clasp thee to my heart, 
Lest, too, thou have his wings ! 



KITTY'S "NO" 

Kit, the recording angel wrote 

That cruel " no " you said, 
And smiled to think how in your throat 

You choked a " yes " instead; 

Then sighed in envy of the look 
That promised me your grace; 

And on the margin of his book 
Limned in excuse your face. 

LIKE TO A COIN 

Like to a coin, passing from hand to 

hand, 
Are common memories, and day by day 
The sharpness of their impress wears away. 
But love's remembrances unspoiled with- 
stand 
The touch of time, as in an antique land 
Where some proud town old centuries did 

slay, 
Intaglios buried lie, still in decay 
Perfect and precious spite of grinding sand. 
What fame or joy or sorrow has been ours. 
What we have hoped or feared, we may 
forget. 



The clearness of all memory time deflours, 
Save that of love alone, persistent yet 
Though sure oblivion all things else 

devours, 
Its tracings firm as when they first were 

set. 



THE WATCHERS 

We must be nobler for our dead, be sure. 
Than for the quick. We might their living 

eyes 
Deceive with gloss of seeming; but all lies 
Were vain to cheat a prescience spirit-pure. 
Our soul's true worth and aim, however 

poor. 
They see who watch us from some death- 
less skies 
With glance death-quickened. That no 

sad surprise 
Sting them in seeing, be ours to secure. 
Living, our loved ones make us what they 

dream; 
Dead, if they see, they know us as we are. 
Henceforward we must be, not merely 

seem. 
Bitterer woe than death it were by far 
To fail their hopes who love us to redeem; 
Loss were thrice loss that thus their faith 

should mar. 



ON THE ROAD TO CHORRERA 

Three horsemen galloped the dusty way ' 
While sun and moon were both in the 
sky; 
An old crone crouched in the cactus' shade, 
And craved an alms as they rode by. 
A friendless hag she seemed to be, 
But the queen of a bandit crew was 
she. 

One horseman tossed her a scanty dole, 
A scoffing couplet the second trolled ; 
But the third, from his blue eyes frank and 
free, 
No glance vouchsafed the beldam old; 
As toward the sunset and the sea. 
No evil fearing, rode the three. 

A curse she gave for the pittance small, 

A gibe for the couplet's ribald word ; 

But that which once had been her heart 



ARLO BATES — FLORENCE EARLE COATES 



535 



At sight of the silent horseman stirred: 
And safe through the ambushed band 

they speed 
For the sake of the rider who would 
not heed ! 

A WINTER TWILIGHT 

Pale beryl sky, with clouds 
Hued like dove's wing, 
O'ershadowing 



The dying day, 
And whose edge half enshrouds 

The first fair evening star, 

Most crystalline by far 
Of all the stars that night enring, 

Half human in its ray, — 
What blessed, soothing sense of calm 
Comes with this twilight, — sovereign 
balm 

That takes at last the bitter sting 

Of day's keen pain away. 



f Korciicc €at\t €ontt0 



PERDITA 

(on seeing miss ANDERSON IN THE 

r6le) 

She dances, 

And I seem to be 
In primrose vales of Sicily, 
Beside the streams once looked upon 
By Thy r sis and by Cory don: 
The sunlight laughs as she advances, 
Shyly the zephyrs kiss her hair, 
And she seems to me as the wood-fawn, free. 

And as the wild rose, fair. 

Dance, Perdita ! and, shepherds, blow ! 
Your reeds restrain no longer ! 
Till weald and welkin gleeful ring. 
Blow, shepherds, blow ! and, lasses, sing 

Yet sweeter strains and stronger ! 
Let far Helorus softer flow 
'Twixt rushy banks, that he may hear; 
Let Pan, great Pan himself, draw near ! 

Stately 

She moves, half smiling, 
With girlish look beguiling, — 
A dawn-like grace in all her face; 
Stately she moves, sedately. 
Through the crowd circling round 

her; 
But — swift as light — 
See ! she takes flight ! 
Empty, alas ! is her place. 

Follow her, follow her, let her not go ! 

Mirth ended so — 

Why, 't is but woe ! 
Follow her, follow her ! Perdita ! — lo. 
Love hath with wreaths enwound her ! 



She dances. 

And I seem to see 
The nymph divine, Terpsichore, 
As when her beauty dazzling shone 
On eerie heights of Helicon. 
With bursts of song her voice entrances 
The dreamy, blossom-scented air. 
And she seems to me as the wood-fawn, 

free. 
And as the wild rose, fair. 

SURVIVAL 

The knell that dooms the voiceless and ob- 
scure 
Stills Memnon's music with its ghostly 

chime ; 
Strength is as weakness in the clasp of 

Time, 
And for the things that were there is no 

cure. 
The vineyard with its fair investiture. 
The mountain summit with its hoary rime. 
The throne of Csesar, Cheops' tomb sublime, 
Alike decay, and only dreams endure. 
Dreams for Assyria her worship won, 
And India is hallowed by her dreams; 
The Sphinx with deathless visage views 

the race 
That like the lotus of a summer seems; 
And, rudderless, immortally sails on 
The winged Victory of Samothraee. 

INDIA 

Silent amidst unbroken silence deep 
Of dateless years, in loneliness supreme, 
She pondered patiently one miglity theme. 
And let the hours, uncounted, by her creep. 



536 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



The motionless Himalayas, the broad sweep 
Of glacial cataracts, great Ganges' 

stream, — 
All these to her were but as things that 

seem, 
Doomed all to pass, like phantoms viewed 

in sleep. 
Her history ? She has none, — scarce a 

name. 
The life she lived is lost in the profound 
Of time, which she despised; but nothing 

mars 
The memory that, single, gives her fame : 
She dreamed eternal dreams, and from the 

ground 
Still raised her yearning vision to the stars. 



TENNYSON 

How beautiful to live as thou didst live ! 
How beautiful to die as thou didst die, — 
In moonlight of the night, without a sigh. 

At rest in all the best that love could give ! 

How excellent to bear into old age 

The poet's ardor and the heart of 

youth, — 
To keep to the last sleep the vow of 
truth. 
And leave to lands that grieve a glowing 
page ! 

How glorious to feel the spirit's power 
Unbroken by the near approach of death. 
To breathe blest prophecies with failing 
breath. 

Soul-bound to beauty in that latest hour ! 

How sweet to greet, in final kinship owned. 
The master-spirit to thy dreams so 

dear, — 
At last from his immortal lips to hear 

The dirge for Imogen, and thee, intoned ! 



How beautiful to live as thou didst live ! 
How beautiful to die as thou didst die, — 
In moonlight of the night, without a sigh, 

At rest in all the best that love could give ! 

SONGS 

THE WORLD IS MINE 

For me the jasmine buds unfold 
And silver daisies star the lea. 

The crocus hoards the sunset gold, 
And the wild rose breathes for me. 

I feel the sap through the bough re- 
turning, 
I share the skylark's transport fine, 

Iknowthefountain'swaywardyearning; 
I love, and the world is mine ! 

I love, and thoughts that sometime 
grieved, 
Still well remembered, grieve not me; 

From all that darkened and deceived 
Upsoars my spirit free. 

For soft the hours repeat one story, 
Sings the sea one strain divine. 

My clouds arise all flushed with glory; 
I love, and the world is mine ! 

TO-MORROW 

The robin chants when the thrush is dumb. 
Snow smooths a bed for the clover, 

Life flames anew, and days to come 
Are sweet as the days that are over. 

The tide that ebbs by the moon flows back, 
Faith builds on the ruins of sorrow. 

The halcyon flutters in winter's track. 
And night makes way for the morrow. 

And ever a strain, of joys the sum. 
Sings on in the heart of the lover — 

In death sings on — that days to come 
Are sweet as the days that are over ! 



o^corgc 3|>ariS^on]Sf Satjjtojr 



THE FLOWN SOUL 

Come not again ! I dwell with you 
Above the realm of frost and dew. 
Of pain and fire, and growth to death. 
1 dwell with you where never breath 
Is drawn, but fragrance vital flows 



From life to life, even as a rose 

Unseen pours sweetness through each vein, 

And from the air distils again. 

You are my rose unseen: we live 

Where each to other joy may give 

In ways untold, by means unknown 

And secret as the magnet-stone. 



GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP 



537 



For which of us, indeed, is dead ? 
No more I lean to kiss your head, — 
The gold-red hair so thick upon it: 
Joy feels no more the touch that won it, 
When o'er my brow your pearl-cool palm 
In tenderness so childish, calm, 
Crept softly, once. Yet, see, my arm 
Is strong, and still my blood runs warm : 

I still can work and think and weep. 
But all this show of life I keep 
Is but the shadow of your shine, 
Flicker of your fire, husk of your vine; 
Therefore you are not dead, nor I, 
Who hear your laughter's minstrelsy. 
Among the stars your feet are set; 
Your little feet are dancing yet 
Their rhythmic beat, as when on earth. 
So swift, so slight, are death and birth ! 

Come not again, dear child. If thou 
By any chance couldst break that vow 
Of silence, at thy last hour made; 
If to this grim life unafraid 
Thou couldst return, and melt the frost 
Wherein thy bright limbs' power was lost; 
Still would I whisper — since so fair 
The silent comradeship we share — 
Yes, whisper mid the unbidden rain 
Of tears: " Come not ! Come not again ! " 

SOUTH-WIND 

Soft-throated South, breathing of sum- 
mer's ease 
(Sweet breath, whereof the violet's life is 

made !) 
Through lips moist-warm, as thou hadst 

lately stayed 
'Mong rosebuds, wooing to the cheeks of 

these 
Loth blushes faint and maidenly, — rich 

breeze. 
Still doth thy honeyed blowing bring a shade 
Of sad foreboding. In thy hand is laid 
The power to build or blight the fruit of 

trees. 
The deep, cool grass, and field of thick- 
combed grain. 
Even so my Love may bring me joy or woe, 
Both measureless, but either counted gain 
Since given by her. For pain and pleasure 

flow 
Like tides upon us of the selfsame sea: 
Tears are the gems of joy and misery. 



■ THE SUNSHINE OF THINE 
EYES 

The sunshine of thine eyes, 

(O still, celestial beam !) 
Whatever it touches it fills 

With the life of its lambent gleam. 

The sunshine of thine eyes, 

Oh, let it fall on me ! 
Though I be but a mote of the air, 

I could turn to gold for thee. 

REMEMBRANCE 

Under the apple bough 

Love, in a dream of leaves, 

Dreamed we of love, as now, — 

All that gives beauty or grieves. 

Over the sad world then 

Curved like the sky that bough ; 
I was in heaven then, — 

You are in heaven now. 

THE VOICE OF THE VOID 

I WARN, like the one drop of rain 
On your face, ere the storm; 
Or tremble in whispered refrain 

With your blood, beating warm. 
I am the presence that ever 
Baffles your touch's endeavor, — 
Gone like the glimmer of dust 

Dispersed by a gust. 
I am the absence that taunts you, 
The fancy that haunts you; 
The ever unsatisfied guess 
That, questioning emptiness. 
Wins a sigh for reply. 

Nay, nothing am I, 
But the flight of a breath — 

For I am Death ! 

THE CHILD'S WISH GRANTED 

Do you remember, my sweet, absent 

son. 
How in the soft June days forever done 
You loved the heavens so warm and clear 

and high ; 
And, when I lifted you, soft came your 

cry, — 
" Put me 'way up, — 'way, 'way up in blue 

sky " ? 



538 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



I laughed and said I could not, — set you 

down, 
Your gray eyes wonder-filled beneath that 

crown 
Of bright hair gladdening me as you raced 

by. 
Another Father now, inore strong than I, 
Has borne you voiceless to your dear blue 

sky. 



KEENAN'S CHARGE 



The sun had set; 

The leaves with dew were wet: 

Down fell a bloody dusk 

On the woods, that second of May, 

Where Stonewall's corps, like a beast of 

prey. 
Tore through, with angry tusk. 

" They Ve trapped us, boys ! " 
Rose from our flank a voice. 
With a rush of steel and smoke 
On came the rebels straight, 
Eager as love and wild as hate; 
And our line reeled and broke: 

Broke and fled. 

No one stayed — but the dead ! 

With curses, shrieks, and cries, 

Horses and wagons and men 

Tumbled back through the shuddering 

glen. 
And above us the fading skies. 

There 's one hope still, — 
Those batteries parked on the hill ! 
" Battery, wheel ! " (mid the roar) 
" Pass pieces ; fix prolonge to fire 
Retiring. Trot ! " In the panic dire 
A bugle rings " Trot ! " — and no more. 

The horses plunged. 

The cannon lurched and lunged. 

To join the hopeless rout. 

But suddenly rode a form 

Calmly in front of the human storm, 

With a stern, commanding shout: 

'* Align those guns ! " 

(We knew it was Pleasonton's.) 

The cannoneers bent to obey, 

A.nd worked with a will at his word: 



And the black guns moved as if they had 

heard. 
But ah the dread delay ! 

" To wait is crime ; 
O God, for ten minutes' time ! " 
The General looked around. 
There Keenan sat, like a stone. 
With his three hundred horse alone, 
Less shaken than the ground. 

" Major, your men ? " 

" Are soldiers, General." " Then 

Charge, Major ! Do your best: 

Hold the enemy back, at all cost. 

Till my guns are placed, — else the army 

is lost. 
You die to save the rest ! " 



By the shrouded gleam of the western skies, 
Brave Keenan looked into Pleasonton's 

eyes 
For an instant, — clear, and cool, and still; 
Then, with a smile, he said: " I will." 

" Cavalry, charge ! " Not a man of them 

shrank. 
Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank, 
Rose joyously, with a willing breath, — 
Rose like a greeting hail to death. 
Then forward they sprang, and spurred 

and clashed ; 
Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed; 
Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow, 
In their faded coats of the blue and yellow; 
And above in the air, with an instinct true, 
Like a bird of war their pennon flew. 

With clank of scabbards and thunder of 

steeds. 
And blades that shine like sunlit reeds, 
And strong brown faces bravely pale 
For fear their proud attempt shall fail, 
Three hundred Pennsylvanians close 
On twice ten thousand gallant foes. 

Line after line the troopers came 

To the edge of the wood that was ringed 

with flame; 
Rode in and sabred and shot — and fell ; 
Nor came one back his wounds to tell. 
And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall 
In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his 

fall, 



GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP — MRS. LATHROP 



539 



While the circle - stroke of his sabre, 
swung 

'Kound his head, like a halo there, lumi- 
nous hung. 

Line after line — ay, whole platoons. 

Struck dead in their saddles — of brave 
dragoons 

By the maddened horses were onward 
borne 

And into the vortex flung, trampled and 
torn ; 

As Keenan fought with his men, side by 
side. 

So they rode, till there were no more to ride. 

But over them, lying there, shattered and 
mute, 



What deep echo rolls ? — 'Tis a death- 
salute 

From the cannon in place; for, heroes, you 
braved 

Your fate not in vain : the army was saved ! 

Over them now — year following year — 

Over their graves the pine-cones fall. 

And the wbippoorwill chants his spectre^ 

call; 
But they stir not again; they raise no 

cheer: 
They have ceased. But their glory shall 

never cease. 
Nor their light be quenched in the light of 

peace. 
The rush of their charge is resounding still 
That saved the army at Chancellorsville. 



Mo^t i^aiutljorm Hat^rojiJ 



GIVE ME NOT TEARS 

DESPAIR 

Dear, when you see my grave, 

Oh, shall you weep ? 

Ah, no ! That were to have 

Mistaken care; 

But when you see my grave, 

I pray you keep 

Sunshine of heart that time doth lay me 
there, 

Where veiling mists of dream guard end- 
less sleep. 

Though the young life we mourn 
f That, blooming, dies, — 

Ere grief hath made forlorn 

This other face, — 

Still sadder are the eyes. 

The cheeks more worn 

Than show the dead, of those who seek 
love's grace: 

Death is the gentlest of the world's replies. 

JOY 

Dear, when the sun is set 

From my life's air, 

And your eyes, newly wet 

With tears for me. 

Make my sky darker yet, — 

Remember where 



Your eyes in light laved all my destiny: 
Weep not, weep not, since so much love 
was there ! 

Remember that through you 
My rapture came: 
I gained from faith so true 
More than I asked, — 
For not the half I knew 
My need might name, 
Until I saw the soul your love unmasked : 
Then crave not of the night my vanished 
flame. 

DOROTHY 

Dear little Dorothy, she is no more ! 

I have wandered world-wide from shore to 

shore, 
I have seen as great beauties as ever were 

wed; 
But none can console me for Dorothy 

dead. 

Dear little Dorothy ! How strange it 

seems 
That her face is less real than the faces of 

dreams; 
That the love which kept true, and the lips 

which so spoke. 
Are more lost than my heart, which died 

not when it broke ! 



540 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD— DIVISION 11 



A SONG BEFORE GRIEF 

Sorrow, my friend, 
When shall you come again ? 
The wind is slow, and the bent willows send 
Their silvery motions wearily down the plain. 
The bird is dead 

That sang this morning through the sum- 
mer rain ! 

Sorrow, my friend, 

I owe my soul to you. 

And if my life with any glory end 

Of tenderness for others, and the words 

are true, 
Said, honoring, when I 'm dead, — ■ 
Sorrow, to you, the mellow praise, the funeral 

wreath, are dueo 

And yet, my friend. 

When love and joy are strong. 

Your terrible visage from my sight I rend 

With glances to blue heaven. Hovering 

along, 
By mine your shadow led, 
" Away ! " I shriek, " nor dare to work my 

new-sprung mercies wrong ! " 

Still, you are near: 

Who can your care withstand ? 



When deep eternity shall look most 

clear, 
Sending bright waves to kiss the trembling 

land. 
My joy shall disappear, — 
A flaming torch thrown to the golden sea 

by your pale haudo 



THE CLOCK'S SONG 

Eileen of four, 

Eileen of smiles; 

Eileen of five, 

Eileen of tears; 

Eileen of ten, of fifteen years, 

Eileen of youth 

And woman's wiles; 

Eileen of twenty, 

In love's land, 

Eileen all tender 

In her bliss. 

Untouched by sorrow's treacherous kiss, 

And the sly weapon in life's hand, — 

Eileen aroused to share all fate, 

Eileen a wife, 

Pale, beautiful, 

Eileen most grave and dutiful. 

Mourning her dreams in queenly state. 

Eileen ! Eileen ! . . . 



€8atk^ frantic iHicfjartij^on 



PRAYER 

If, when J kneel to pray. 
With eage r lips I say : 
"Lord, give me all the things that I de- 
sire, — 
Health, wealth, fame, friends, brave heart, 

religious fire. 
The power to sway my fellow -men at 

will, 
And strength for mighty works to banish 
ill," - 
In such a prayer as this 
The blessing I must miss. 

Or if I only dare 
To raise this fainting prayer: 
" Thou seest, Lord, that I am poor and 
weak, 



And cannot tell what things I ought to 

seek; 
I therefore do not ask at all, but still 
I trust thy bounty all my wants to fill," — 
My lips shall thus grow dumb, 
The blessing shall not come. 



But if I lowly fall. 
And thus in faith I call: 
"Through Christ, O Lord, I pray thee 

give to me 
Not what I would, but what seems best to 

thee 
Of life, of health, of service, and of 

strength, 
Until to thy full joy I come at length," — 
My prayer shall then avail. 
The blessing shall not fail. 



CHARLES FRANCIS RICHARDSON— EDWIN MARKHAM 541 



AFTER DEATH 

When I forth fare beyond this narrow earth, 
With all its metes and bounds of now and 

. here,. 
And brooding clouds of ignorance and fear 
That overhung me on my day of birth, 
Wherethrough the jocund sun's perennial 

mirth 
Has shone more inly bright each coming 

year 
With some new glory of that outer sphere 
Where length and breadth and height are 

little worth. 
Then shall I find that even here below 
We guessed the secret of eternity. 
And learned in years the yearless mys- 
tery; 
For in our earliest world we came to know 



The master-lesson and the riddle's key; 
Unending love unending growth shall be. 

A CONJECTURE 

I WONDER, dear, if you had been 

The maiden queen's pet maid of honor, 

A flower of that fair time wherein 
A court of roses smiled upon her, 

And I, erewhile, by Trojan wall 

Had fiercely fought for Grecian glory, 

Beheld the pride of Priam fall, 

And home in Athens told the story, 

Whether we, wandering in the glow 
Of the Hereafter's radiant spaces. 

Would there have mutely met, and so 
Seen love make bright our yearning faces. 



€trtDin a^athfjam 



THE MAN WITH THE HOE 

WRITTEN AFTER SEEING THE PAINTING BY 
MILLET 

God made man in His own image, in the image of God 
made He him. — Genesis. 

Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans 
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, 
The emptiness of ages in his face. 
And on his back the burden of the world. 
Who made him dead to rapture and despair, 
A thing that grieves not and that never 

hopes, 
Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox ? 
Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw ? 
Whose was the hand that slanted back this 

brow ? 
Whose breath blew out the light within 

this brain ? 

Is this the Thing the Lord God made and 

gave 
To have dominion over sea and land ; 
To trace the stars and search the heavens 

for power ; 
To feel the passion of Eternity ? 
Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped 

the suns 
And pillared the blue firmament with light ? 
Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf 
There is no shape more terrible than this — 



More tongued wilh censure of the world's 

blind greed — 
More filled with signs and portents for the 

soul — 
More fraught with menace to the universe^ 

What gulfs between him and the seraphim ! 

Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him 

Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades ? 

What the long reaches of the peaks of song. 

The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose ? 

Through this dread shape the suffering 
ages look; 

Time's tragedy is in that aching stoop ; 

Through this dread shape humanity be- 
trayed, 

Plundered, profaned, and disinherited. 

Cries protest to the tludges of the World, 

A protest that is also prophecy. 

O masters, lords, and rulers in all lands, 
Is this the handiwork you give to God, 
This monstrous thing distorted and soul- 
quenched ? 
How will you ever straighten up this shape; 
Touch it again with immortality; 
Give back the upward looking and the 

light; 
Rebuild in it the music and the dream; 
Make right the immemorial infamies. 
Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes ? 



542 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



O masters, lords, and rulers in all lands, 
How will the Future reckon with this Man ? 
How answer his brute question in that hour 
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the 

world ? 
How will it be with kingdoms and with 

kings — ■ 
With those who shaped him to the thing 

he is — 
When this dumb Terror shall reply to 

God, 
After the silence of the centuries ? 



MY COMRADE 

I NEVER build a song by night or day, 
Of breaking ocean or of blowing whin. 

But in some wondrous unexpected way, 
Like light upon a road, my Love comes 



And when I go at night upon the hill. 
My heart is lifted on mysterious wings: 

My Love is there to strengthen and to still, 
For she can take away the dread of 
things. 



POETRY 

She comes like the hush and beauty of the 
night, 

And sees too deep for laughter; 
Her touch is a vibration and a light 

From worlds before and after. 



A LOOK INTO THE GULF 

I LOOKED one night, and there Semiramis, 
With all her mourning doves about her 

head, 
Sat rocking on an ancient road of Hell, 
Withered and eyeless, chanting to the moon 
Snatches of song they sang to her of old 
Upon the lighted roofs of Nineveh. 
And then her voice rang out with rattling 

laugh: 
" The bugles ! they are crying back again — 
Bugles that broke the nights of Babylon, 
And then went crying on through Nineveh. 

Stand back, ye trembling messengers of ill ! 
Women, let go my hair: I am the Queen, 



A whirlwind and a blaze of swords to 

quell 
Insurgent cities. Let the iron tread 
Of armies shake the earth. Look, lofty 

towers: 
Assyria goes by upon the wind ! " 
And so she babbles by the ancient road, 
While cities turned to dust upon the 

Earth 
Rise through her whirling brain to live 

again — 
Babbles all night, and when her voice is 

dead 
Her weary lips beat on without a sound 



THE LAST FURROW 

The Spirit of Earth with still, restoring 

hands. 
Mid ruin moves, in glimmering chasm 

gropes. 
And mosses mantle and the bright flower 

opes; 
But Death the Ploughman wanders in all 

lands. 
And to the last of Earth his furrow stands. 
The grave is never hidden: fearful hopes 
Follow the dead upon the fading slopes. 
And there wild memories meet upon the 

sands. 
When willows fling their banners to the 

plain, 
When rumor of winds and sound of sudden 

showers 
Disturb the dream of winter, all in vain 
The grasses hurry to the graves, the flow- 
ers 
Toss their wild torches on their windy 

towers ; 
Yet are the bleak graves lonely in the 

rain. 



THE WHIRLWIND ROAD 

The Muses wrapped in mysteries of light 
Came in a rush of music on the night; 
And I was lifted wildly on quick wings. 
And borne away into the deep of things. 
The dead doors of my being broke apart; 
A wind of rapture blew across the heart; 
The inward song of worlds rang still and 

clear; 
I felt the Mystery the Muses fear; 



MARKHAM — DAY — EGAN 



543 



Yet they went swiftening on the ways un- 

trod, 
And hurled me breathless at the feet of 

God. 

I felt faint touches of the Final Truth, — 
Moments of trembling love, moments of 

youth. 
A vision swept away the human wall; 
Slowly I saw the meaning of it all — 
Meaning of life and time and death and 

birth, — 
But cannot tell it to the men of Earth. 
I only point the way, and they must go 
The whirlwind road of song if they would 

know. 



JOY OF THE MORNING 

I HEAR you, little bird. 
Shouting a-swing above the broken walL 
Shout louder yet : no song can tell it all. 
Sing to my soul in the deep, still wood: 
'Tis wonderful beyond the wildest word; 
I 'd tell it, too, if I could. 

Oft when the white still dawn 

Lifted the skies and pushed the hills 

apart, 
I 've felt it like a glory in my heart, 
(The world's mysterious stir) 
But had no throat like yours, my bird, 
Nor such a listener. 



ENGLAND TO SHAKESPEARE 



Thou art as a lone watcher on a rock. 
With Saxon hair back floating in the wind, 
Gazing where stranger ships, to doom con- 
signed, 
Upon the sullen ledges grind and knock. 
Fair were the barks round which the 

breakers flock, 
Rich freights had they of treasure for man- 
kind. 
And gallant were the hearts that left behind 
The sea's broad buffet for the channel's 

shock. 
Slow, slow the ship that brings thy liberties 
Cuts the white tempest or the bright, blue 

brine, 
And wanders oft before the whelming storm. 
And ever the swift straits and shallows 

flees. 
But near, more near, the haven's sheltering 

line, 
Up the long sea-curve rides its stately form. 



Thou, who didst lay all other bosoms 

bare, 
Impenetrable shade didst round thee throw 5 
And of the ready tears thou makest 

flow. 
Monarch of tears, thou hast not any 

share. 
Sad Petrarch, sadder Byron their despair 
Unlocked, their dismal theatres of woe 
Unclosed: thou showest Hamlet, Romeo, 
And maddened Lear, with tempest on his 

hair. 
Hadst thou no suffering men's tears could 

suage ? 
No comedy of thine own life, shut in ? 
No lurid tragedy — perhaps of sin — 
That walked with muffled steps its curtained 

stage ? 
Confession troubles ne'er thy godlike 

look ; 
Thou art, thyself, thy one unopened book. 



la^nurice jfmncij^ €Qnn 



MAURICE DE GUERIN 

The old wine filled him, and he saw, with 

eyes 
Anoint of Nature, fauns and dryads fair 
Unseen by others j to him maidenhair 



And waxen lilacs, and those birds that rise 
A-sudden from tall reeds at slight surprise. 
Brought charmed thoughts; and in earth 

everywhere 
He, like sad Jaques, found a music rare 
As that of Syrinx to old Grecians wise. 



544 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



A pagan heart, a Christian soul had he, 
He followed Christ, yet for dead Pan he 

sighed, 
Till earth and heaven met within his breast; 
As if Theocritus in Sicily 
Had come upon the Figure crucified 
And lost his gods in deep, Christ-given 

rest. 



HE MADE US FREE 

As flame streams upvrard, so my longing 

thought 

Flies up with Thee, 
Thou God and Saviour, who hast truly 

wrought 
Life out of death, and to us, loving, 

brought 
A fresh, new world; and in Thy sweet 

chains caught, 

And made us free ! 

As hyacinths make way from out the dark, 

My soul awakes, 
At thought of Thee, like sap beneath the 

bark; 
As little violets in field and park 
Rise to the trilling thrush and meadow-lark, 

New hope it takes. 

As thou goest upward through the nameless 
space 

We call the sky. 
Like jonquil perfume softly falls Thy grace; 
It seems to touch and brighten every place; 
Fresh flowers crown our wan and weary 
race, 

O Thou on high ! 

Hadst Thou not risen, there would be no 

joy 

Upon earth's sod; 
Life would be still with us a wound or 

toy, _ 
A cloud without the sun, — O Babe, O 

Boy, 
O Man of Mother pure, with no alloy, 
O risen God ! 

Thou, God and King, didst " mingle in the 

game," 

(Cease, all fears; cease !) 
For love of us, — not to give Virgil's 

fame 



Or Croesus' wealth, not to make well the 

lame. 
Or save the sinner from deserved shame, 
But for sweet Peace ! 

For peace, for joy, — not that the slave 
might lie 
In luxury. 
Not that all woe from us should alwavs 

fly' . . 

Or golden crops with Syrian roses vie 

In every field; but in Thy peace to die 

And rise, — be free ! 

THE OLD VIOLIN 

Though tuneless, stringless, it lies there in 
dust, 
Like some great thought on a forgotten 
page; 
The soul of music cannot fade or rust, — 
The voice within it stronger grows with 
age; 
Its strings and bow are only trifling things — 
A master-touch ! — its sweet soul wakes 
and sings. 

THE SHAMROCK 

When April rains make flowers bloom 

And Johnny-jump-ups come to light. 
And clouds of color and perfume 

Float from the orchards pink and white, 
I see my shamrock in the rain. 

An emerald spray with raindrops set. 
Like jewels on Spring's coronet. 

So fair, and yet it breathes of pain. 

The shamrock on an older shore 

Sprang from a rich and sacred soil 
Where saint and hero lived of yore. 

And where their sons in sorrow toil; 
And here, transplanted, it to me 

Seems weeping for the soil it left: 
The diamonds that all others see 

Are tears drawn from its heart bereft. 

When April rain makes flowers grow, 

And sparkles on their tiny buds 
That in June nights will over-blow 

And fill the world with scented floods. 
The lonely shamrock in our land — 

So fine among the clover leaves — 
For the old springtimes often grieves, — 

I feel its tears upon my hand. 



NATHAN HASKELL DOLE — HENRY VAN DYKE 



545 



l^atjjan i^a^hell SDoIc 



RUSSIA 



Satuknian mother ! why dost thou devour 
Thy offspring, who by loving thee are curst ? 
Why must tliey fear thee who would fain 

be first 
To add new glories to thy matchless dower ? 
Why must they flee before thy cruel power, 
That punishes their best as treason's 

worst, — 
The treason that despotic chains would 

burst, — 
That makes men heroes who in slavery 

cower ? 
Upon thy brow the stars of empire burn; 
Thy bearing has a majesty sublime. 
Thy exiled children ever toward thee yearn ; 
Nor should their ardent love be deemed a 

crime. 
O, mighty mother of men, to mildness 

turn, 
And haste the advent of a happier time ! 



TO AN IMPERILLED TRAVELLER 



Unflinching Dante of a later day, 
Thou who hast wandered through 
realms of pain 



the 



And seen with aching breast and whirling 

brain 
Woes which thou wert unable to allay, 
What frightful visions hast thou brought 

away: 
Of torments, passions, agonies, struggles 

vain 
To break the prison walls, to rend the 

chain, — 
Of hopeless hearts too desperate to pray ! 
Men are the devils of that pitiless hell ! 
Men guard the labyrinth of that ninefold 

curse ! 
Marvel of marvels ! Thou hast lived to 

tell, 
In prose more sorrowful than Dante's 

verse, 
Of pangs more grievous, sufferings more 

fell, 
Thau Dante or his master dared r^earse ! 



A RUSSIAN FANTASY 

O'er the yellow crocus on the lawn 

Floats a light white butterfly. 
Breezes waft it ! See, 'tis gone ! 

Dushka, little soul, when didst thou 
die? 



I^cnrp Fan SDpfee 



AN ANGLER'S WISH 



When tulips bloom in Union Square, 
And timid breaths of vernal air 

Go wandering down the dusty town, 
Like children lost in Vanity Fair; 

When every long, unlovely row 
Of westward houses stands aglow. 

And leads the eyes towards sunset skies 
Beyond the hills where green trees grow, — 

Then weary seems the street parade, 
And weary books, and weary trade: 
I'm only wishing to go a-fishing; 
For this the month of May was made. 



II 

I guess the pussy-willows now 
Are creeping out on every bough 

Along the brook; and robins look 
For early worms behind the plough. 

The thistle-birds have changed their dun 
For yellow coats, to match the sun; 

And in the same array of flame 
The dandelion show 's begun. 

The flocks of young anemones 

Are dancing round the budding trees: 

Who can help wishing to go a-fishing 
In days as full of joy as these ? 



546 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



I think the meadow-lark's clear sound 
Leaks upward slowly from the ground, 

While on the wing the blue-birds ring 
Their wedding-bells to woods around. 

The flirting chewink calls his dear 
Behind the bush; and very near, 

Where water flows, where green grass 
grows, 
Song-sparrows gently sing, " Good cheer." 

And, best of all, through twilight's calm 
The hermit-thrush repeats his psalm. 

How much I 'm wishing to go a-fishing 
In days so sweet with music's balm ! 



'T is not a proud desire of mine; 
I ask for nothing superfine; 

No heavy weight, no salmon great, 
To break the record — or my line: 

Only an idle little stream, 
W^hose amber waters softly gleam. 

Where I may wade, through woodland 
shade, 
And cast the fly, and loaf, and dream: 

Only a trout or two, to dart 
From foaming pools, and try my art: 
No more I 'm wishing — old-fashioned 
fishing, 
And just a day on Nature's heart. 

THE VEERY 

The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver 
flood were pouring, 

When first I heard the nightingale a long- 
lost love deploring. 

So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded 
strange and eerie; 

I longed to hear a simpler strain, — the 
wood-notes of the veery. 

The laverock sings a bonny lay above the 

Scottish heather; 
It sprinkles down from far away like light 

and love together; 
He drops the golden notes to greet his 

brooding mate, his dearie; 
I only know one song more sweet, — the 

vespers of the veery. 



In English gardens, green and bright and 

full of fruity treasure, 
I heard the blackbird with delight repeat 

his merry measure: 
The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune 

was loud and cheery, 
And yet, with every setting sun, I listened 

for the veery. 

But far away, and far away, the tawny 
thrush is singing; 

New England woods, at close of day, with 
that clear chant are ringing: 

And when my light of life is low, and heart 
and flesh are weary, 

I fain would hear, before I go, the wood- 
notes of the veery. 

ROSLIN AND HAWTHORNDEN 

Fair Roslin Chapel, how divine 
The art that reared thy costly shrine ! 
Thy carven columns must have grown 
By magic, like a dream in stone. 

Yet not within thy storied wall 
Would I in adoration fall. 
So gladly as within the glen 
That leads to lovely Hawthornden: 

A long-drawn aisle, with roof of green 
And vine-clad pillars, while between 
The Esk runs murmuring on its way, 
In living music, night and day. 

Within the temple of this wood 

The martyrs of the covenant stood. 

And rolled the psalm, and poured the 

prayer, 
From Nature's solemn altar-stair. 

THE LILY OF YORROW 

Deep in the heart of the forest the lily of 
Yorrow is growing; 

Blue is its cup as the sky, and with mysti- 
cal odor o'erflowing; 

Faintly it falls through the shadowy glades 
when the south wind is blowing; 

Sweet are the primroses pale, and the vio- 
lets after a shower; 

Sweet are the borders of pinks, and the 
blossoming grapes on the bower: 



HENRY VAN DYKE — JOSEPH I. C. CLARKE 



547 



Sweeter by far is the breath of that far- 
away woodland flower. 

Searching and strange in its sweetness, it 
steals like a perfume enchanted 

Under the arch of the forest, and all who 
perceive it are haunted, 

Seeking and seeking forever, till sight of 
the lily is granted. 

Who can describe how it grows, with its 

chalice of lazuli leaning 
Over a crystalline spring, where the ferns 

and the mosses are greening ? 
Who can imagine its beauty, or utter the 

depth of its meaning ? 

Calm of the journeying stars, and repose of 

the mountains olden, 
Joy of the swift-running rivers, and glory 

of sunsets golden, 
Secrets that cannot be told in the heart of 

the flower are holden. 

Surely to see it is peace and the crown of a 

life-long endeavor; 
Surely to pluck it is gladness, — but they 

who have found it can never 
Tell of the gladness and peace: they are 

hid from our vision forever. 

'T was but a moment ago that a comrade 
was wandering near me: 

Turning aside from the pathway, he mur- 
mured a greeting to cheer me, — 

Then he was lost in the shade, and I called, 
but he did not hear me. 

Why should I dream he is dead, and bewail 
him with passionate sorrow ? 



Surely I know there is gladness in finding 

the lily of Yorrow: 
He has discovered it first, and perhaps I 

shall find it to-morrow. 



TENNYSON 

■iU LUCEM TRANSITUS, OCTOBER, 1 892 

From the misty shores of midnight, touched 
with splendors of the moon. 

To the singing tides of heaven, and the 
light more clear than noon. 

Passed a soul that grew to music till it was 
with God in tune. 

Brother of the greatest poets, true to 

nature, true to art; 
Lover of Immortal Love, uplifter of the 

human heart, — 
Who shall cheer us with high music, who 

shall sing, if thou depart ? 

Silence here — for love is silent, gazing on 

the lessening sail; 
Silence here — for grief is voiceless when 

the mighty minstrels fail; 
Silence here — but, far beyond us, many 

voices crying, Hail ! 



FOUR THINGS 

Four things a man must learn to do 
If he would make his record true : 
To think without confusion clearly; 
To love his fellow-men sincerely; 
To act from honest motives purely; 
To trust in God and Heaven securely. 



Sioj^epl) J. C. Clarfee 



THE FIGHTING RACE 

" Read out the names ! " and Burke sat 
back, 

And Kelly drooped his head. 
While Shea — they callhim Scholar Jack — 

Went down the list of the dead. 
Officers, seamen, gunners, marines. 

The crews of the gig and yawl, 
The bearded man and the lad in his teens, 



Carpenters, coal passers — all. 
Then, knocking the ashes from out his 
pipe, 
Said Burke in an offhand way: 
" We 're all in that dead man's list, by 
Cripe ! 
Kelly and Burke and Shea." 
" Well, here 's to the Maine, and I 'm sorry 
for Spain," 
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. 



548 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



" Wherever there 's Kellys there 's trouble," 
said Burke. 
" Wherever fighting 's the game, 
Or a spice of danger ingrown man's work," 

Said Kelly, " you 'U find my name." 
" And do we fall short," said Burke, get- 
ting mad, 
*' When it 's touch and go for life ? " 
Said Shea, " It 's thirty-odd years, bedad, 

Since I charged to drum and fife 
Up Marye's Heights, and my old canteen 

Stopped a rebel ball on its way. 
There were blossoms of blood on our sprigs 
of green — 
Kelly and Burke and Shea — 
And the dead did n't brag." " Well, here 's 
to the flag ! " 
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. 

" I wish 't was in Ireland, for there 's the 
place," 

Said Burke, " that we 'd die by right, 
In the cradle of our soldier race, 

After one good stand-up fight. 
My grandfather fell on Vinegar Hill, 

And fighting was not his trade ; 
But his rusty pike 's in the cabin still, 

With Hessian blood on the blade." 
"Aye, aye," said Kelly, "the pikes were 
great 

When the word was ' clear the way ! ' 
We were thick on the roll in ninety-eight — 

Kelly and Burke and Shea." 
" Well, here 's to the pike and the sword 

and the like ! " 
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. 



And Shea, the scholar, with rising joy, 

Said, " We were at Ramillies; 
We left our bones at Fontenoy 

And up in the Pyrenees; 
Before Dunkirk, on Landen's plain, 

Cremona, Lille, and Ghent, 
We 're all over Austria, France, and 
Spain, 

Wherever they pitched a tent. 
We 've died for England from Waterloo 

To Egypt and Dargai; 
And still there 's enough for a corps or 
crew, 

Kelly and Burke and Shea." 
" Well, here is to good honest fighting 
blood ! " 

Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. 

" Oh, the fighting races don't die out, 

If they seldom die in bed. 
For love is first in their hearts, no doubt," 

Said Burke; then Kelly said: 
" When Michael, the Irish Archangel, 
stands. 

The angel with the sword. 
And the battle -dead from a hundred 
lands 

Are ranged in one big horde. 
Our line, that for Gabriel's trumpet waits. 

Will stretch three deep that day, 
From Jehoshaphat to the Golden Gates — 

Kelly and Burke and Shea." 
" Well, here 's thank God for the race and 
the sod ! " 

Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. 



€f)arto JJenrp ^f^dp^ 



HENRY WARD BEECHER 

His tongue was touched with sacred 

fire, 

He could not rest, he must speak out, 

When Liberty lay stabbed, and doubt 

Stalked through the night in vestments 

dire, — 

When slaves uplifted manacled hands, 
Praying in agony and despair. 
And answer came not anywhere. 

But gloom through all the stricken 
lands, — 



His voice for freedom instant rang. 

" For shame ! " he cried ; " spare thou 
the rod; 

All men are free before their God ! " 
The dragon answered with its fang. 

'T is brave to face embrasured death 
Hot belching from the cannon's mouth, 
Yet brave it is, for North or South, 

And Truth, to face the mob's mad breath. 

So spake he then, — he and the few 

Who prized their manhood more than 
praise ; 



C. H. PHELPS — ROBERT 


UNDERWOOD JOHNSON 549 


Their faith failed not of better days 


YUMA 


After the nights of bloody dew. 






Weary, weary, desolate, 


England's great heart misunderstood: 


Sand-swept, parched, and cursed of 


She looked upon her child askance; 


fate; 


But heard his words and lowered her 


Burning, but how passionless ! 


lance, 


Barren, bald, and pitiless ! 


Remembering her motherhood. 






Through all ages baleful moons 


Majestic Liberty, serene 


Glared upon thy whited dunes; 


Thou frontest on the chaste white 




sea ! 


And malignant, wrathful suns 


Quench thou awhile thy torch, for he 


Fiercely drank thy streamless runs; 


Lies dead on whom thou once did lean. 






So that Nature's only tune 


Thy cause was ever his, — the slave 


Is the blare of the simoon, 


In any fetters was his friend; 


Piercing burnt unweeping skies 


His warfare never knew an end; 


With its awful monodies. 


Wherever men lay bound he clave. 






Not a flower lifts its head 


RARE MOMENTS 


Where the emigrant lies dead; 


Each of us is like Balboa: once in all our 


Not a living creature calls 


lives do we. 


Where the Gila Monster crawls, 


Gazing from some tropic summit, look upon 


Hot and bideous as the sun. 


an unknown sea; 


To the dead man's skeleton; 


But upon the dreary morrow, every way our 


But the desert and the dead, 


footsteps seek, 


And the hot hell overhead, 


Rank and tangled vine and jungle block our 


And the blazing, seething air, 


pathway to the peak. 


And the dread mirage are there. 



"dobtxt 23ntici:tDooti goju^efon 



FROM "THE VOICE OF WEB- 
STER" 

Silence was envions of the only voice 
That mightier seemed than she. So, 

cloaked as Death, 
With potion borrowed from Oblivion, 
Yet with slow step and tear -averted 

look, 
She sealed his lips, closed his extinguished 

eyes, 
And, veiling him with darkness, deemed 

him dead. 
But no ! — There 's something vital in the 

great 
That blunts the edge of Death, and sages 

say 
You should stab deep if you would kill a 

king. 



In vain ! The conqueror's conqueror he 

remains, 
Surviving his survivors. And as when. 
The prophet gone, his least disciple stands 
Newly invested with a twilight awe, 
So linger men beside his listeners 
While they recount that miracle of speech 
And the hushed wonder over which it fell. 

What do they tell us of that storied voice, 
Breathing an upper air, wherein he dwelt 
Mid shifting clouds a mountain of re- 
solve, 
And falling like Sierra's April flood 
That pours in ponderous cadence from the 

cliff. 
Waking Yosemite from its sleep of snow. 
And less by warmth than by its massive 
power 



550 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Thawing a thousand torrents into one ? 
Such was his speech, and, were his fame to 

die, 
Such for its requiem alone were fit: 
Some kindred voice of Nature, as the Sea 
When autumn tides redouble their lament 
On Marshfield shore ; some elemental force 
Kindred to Nature in the mind of man — 
A far-felt, rhythmic, and resounding wave 
Of Homer, or a freedom-breathing wind 
Sweeping the height of Milton's loftiest 

mood. 
Most fit of all, could his own words pro- 
nounce 
His eulogy, eclipsing old with new. 
As though a dying star should burst in 
light. 

And yet he spoke not only with his voice. 
His full brow, buttressing a dome of 

thought. 
Moved the imagination like the rise 
Of some vast temple covering nothing 

mean. 
His eyes were sibyls' caves, wherein the 

wise 
Read sibyls' secrets; and the iron clasp 
Of those broad lips, serene or saturnine. 
Made proclamation of majestic will. 
His glance could silence like a frowning 

Fate. 
His mighty frame was refuge, while his 

mien 
Did make dispute of stature with the 

gods. 



AS A BELL IN A CHIME 

As a bell in a chime 

Sets its twin-note a-ringiug. 
As one poet's rhyme 

Wakes another to singing, j 
So, once she has smiled, 
All your thoughts are beguiled, 
And flowers and song from your childhood 
are bringing. ' 

' Though moving through sorrow 

As the star through the night, 
She needs not to borrow, 

She lavishes, light. 
The path of yon star 
Seemeth dark but afar: 
Like hers it is sure, and like hers it is bright. 



Each grace is a jewel 

Would ransom the town; 
Her speech has no cruel. 
Her praise is renown; 
'T is in her as though Beauty, 
Resigning to Duty 
The sceptre, had still kept the purple and 
crown. 



THE WISTFUL DAYS 

What is there wanting in the Spring ? 

The air is soft as yesteryear; 

The happy-nested green is here. 
And half the world is on the wing. 

The morning beckons, and like balm 

Are westward waters blue and calm. 
Yet something 's wanting in the Spring. 

What is it wanting in the Spring ? 
O April, lover to us all. 
What is so poignant in thy thrall 

When children's merry voices ring ? 
What haunts us in the cooing dove 
More subtle than the speech of Love, 

What nameless lack or loss of Spring ? 

Let Youth go dally with the Spring, 
Call her the dear, the fair, the young; 
And all her graces ever sung 

Let him, once more rehearsing, sing. 
They know, who keep a broken tryst, 
Till something from the Spring be missed 

We have not truly known the Spring. 



IN TESLA'S LABORATORY 

Here in the dark what ghostly figures 

press ! — 
No phantom of the Past, or grim or sad ; 
No wailing spirit of woe; no spectre, 

clad 
In white and wandering cloud, whose dumb 

distress 
Is that its crime it never may confess; 
No shape from the strewn sea; nor they 

that add 
The link of Life and Death, — the tearless 

mad, 
That live nor die in dreary nothingness: 
But blessed spirits waiting to be born — 
Thoughts to unlock the fettering chains of 

Things; 



R. U. JOHNSON — RICHARD KENDALL MUNKITTRICK 551 



The Better Time; the Universal Good. 
Their smile is like the joyous break of morn; 
How fair, how near, how wistfully they 

brood ! 
Listen ! that murmur is of angels' wings. 



BROWNING AT ASOLO 

This is the loggia Browning loved, 

High on the Hank of the friendly town ; 

These are the hills that his keen eye roved, 
The green like a cataract leaping down 
To the plain that his pen gave new 
renown. 

There to the West what a range of blue ! — 
The very background Titian drew 

To his peerless Loves ! O tranquil 
scene ! 
Who than thy poet fondlier knew 

The peaks and the shore and the lore 
between ? 

See ! yonder 's his Venice — the valiant 
Spire, 

Highest one of the perfect three. 
Guarding the others : the Palace choir. 
The Temple flashing with opal fire — 

Bubble and foam of the sunlit sea. 

Yesterday he was part of it all — 
Sat here, discerning cloud from snow 
In the flush of the Alpine afterglow, 
Or mused on the vineyard whose wine- 
stirred row 

Meets in a leafy bacchanal. 



Listen a moment — how oft did he ! — 
To the bells from Fontalto's distant 
tower 
Leading the evening in . . . ah, me ! 
Here breathes the whole soul of Italy 
As one rose breathes with the breath of 
the bower. 

Sighs were meant for an hour like this 
When joy is keen as a thrust of pain. 
Do you wonder the poet's heart should miss 
This touch of rapture in Nature's kiss 
And dream of Asolo ever again ? 

" Part of It yesterday," we moan ? 

Nay, he is part of it now, no fear. 
What most we love we are that alone. 
His body lies under the Minster stone. 

But the love of the warm heart lingers 
here. 



THE BLOSSOM OF THE SOUL 

Thou half-unfolded flower 
With fragrance-laden heart, 

What is the secret power 
That doth thy petals part ? 

What gave thee most thy hue — 

The sunshine or the dew ? 

Thou wonder-wakened soul ! 

As Dawn doth steal on Night, 
On thee soft Love hath stole. 

Thine eye, that blooms with light, 
What makes its charm so new — 
Its sunshine, or its dew ? 



^icjarti llcntiaH Sl^unfeittricft 



AT THE SHRINE 

A PALE Italian peasant. 

Beside the dusty way, 
Upon this morning pleasant 

Kneels in the sun to pray. 

Silent in her devotion. 

With fervent glance she pleads; 
Her fingers' only motion, 

Telling her amber beads. 

Dreaming of ilex bowers 

Beyond the purple brine, 



Once more she sees the flowers 
Bloom at the wayside shrine. 

And, while the mad crowd jostles, 
She, with a visage sweet, 

Prays where the bisque apostles 
Are sold on Barclay Street. 



GHOSTS 

Out in the misty moonlight 
The first snowflakes I see, 



552 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



As they frolic among the leafless 
Limbs of the apple-tree. 

Faintly they seem to whisper, 
As round the boughs they wing: 

" We are the ghosts of the blossoms 
That died in the early spring." 



A BULB 

Misshapen, black, unlovely to the sight, 
O mute companion of the murky 
mole. 
You must feel overjoyed to have a 
white. 
Imperious, dainty lily £or a soul. 



TO MIGUEL DE CERVANTES 
SAAVADRA 

A BLUEBIRD lives in yonder tree, 

Likewise a little chickadee. 

In two woodpeckers' nests — rent free ! 

There, where the weeping willow weeps, 
A dainty housewren sweetly cheeps — 
From an old oriole's nest she peeps. 
I see the English sparrow tilt 
Upon the limb with sun begilt, — 
His nest an ancient swallow built. 

So it was one of your old jests, 

Eh, Mig. Cervantes, that attests 

" There are no birds in last year's nests " ? 



Crabcn Eang^trotft ^ttt^ 



THE HOLLYHOCKS 

Some space beyond the garden close 

I sauntered down the shadowed lawn; 
It was the hour when sluggards doze, 

The cheerful, zephyr-breathing dawn. 
The sun had not yet liathed his face, 

Dark reddened from the night's carouse. 
When, lo ! in festive gypsy grace 

The hollyhocks stood nodding brows. 

They shone full bold and debonair — 

That fine, trim band of frolic blades; 
Their ruffles, pinked and purfled fair, 

Flamed with their riotous rainbow shades. 
They whispered light each comrade's ears, 

They flirted with the wooing breeze; 
The grassy army's stanchest spears 

Rose merely to their stalwart knees ! 

My heart flushed warm with welcome cheer, 

They were so royal tall to see; 
No high-placed rivals need they fear. 

All flowers paid them fealty. 
The haughtiest wild rose standing near 

Their girdles hardly might attain; 
They glowed, the courtiers of a year, 

Blithe pages in the Summer's train ! 

Their radiance mocked the ruddy morn, 

So jocund and so saucy free; 
Gay vagrants, Flora's bravest born. 

They brightened all the emerald lea. 



I said: "Glad hearts, the crabbed frost 
Will soon your sun-dyed glories blight; 

No evil eye your pride has crossed. 
You know not the designs of night. 

" You have not thought that beauty fades ; 

It is in vain you bloom so free; 
While you are flaunting in the glades • 

The gale may wreck your wanton glee." 
They shook their silken frills in scorn. 

And to my warning seemed to say, 
" Dull rhymester, look ! 'tis summer morn, 

And round us is the court of Day ! " 



DON QUIXOTE 

Gaunt, rueful knight, on raw-boned, sham- 
bling hack. 
Thy battered morion, shield and rusty spear, 
Jog ever down the road in strange career. 
Both tears and laughter following on thy 

track. 
Stout Sancho hard behind, whose leathern 

back 
Is curved in clownish sufferance, mutual 

cheer 
The quest beguiling as devoid of fear. 
Thou spurrest to rid the world of rogues, 

alack ! 
Despite fantastic creed and addled pate, 
Of awkward arms and weight of creaking 
steel, 



MRS. CORTISSOZ 



553 



Nobility is thine — the high estate 

That arms knights errant for all human 

weal; 
How rare, La Mancha, grow such souls of 

late, — 
Dear, foiled enthusiast, teach our hearts to 

feel ! 

TO THE MOONFLOWER 

Pale, climbing disk, who dost lone vigil 

keep 
When all the flower-heads droop in drowsy 

swoon; 
When lily bells fold to the zephyr's tune. 
And wearied bees are lapped in sugared 

sleep; 



What secret hope is thine ? What purpose 

deep ? 
Art thou enamored of the siren moon 
That thus thy white face from the god of 

noon 
Thou coverest, while his chariot rounds the 

steep ? 
Poor, frail Eudymion ! know her lustre's 

line 
Is but the cold, reflected majesty 
That clothes the great sun's regent-borrowed 

shine 
Of him who yields restricted ministry. 
Thy bright creator ; he did ne'er de- 
sign 
The proud, false queen should fealty take 

of thee ! 



oBIkn a^achap j^utcljin^on Corti^sfj^o^ 



MOTH-SONG 

What dost thou here. 

Thou dusky courtier. 
Within the pinky palace of the rose ? 
Here is no bed for thee. 
No honeyed spicery, — 
But for the golden bee, 
And the gay wind, and me, 

Its sweetness grows. 
Rover, thou dost forget; — 
Seek thou the passion-flower 
Bloom of one twilight hour. 

Haste, thou art late ! 
Its hidden savors wait. 

For thee is spread 
Its soft, purple coverlet; 

Moth, art thou sped ? 
— Dim as a ghost he flies 
Thorough the night mysteries. 

HER PICTURE 

Autumn was cold in Plymouth town; 

The wind ran round the shore. 
Now softly passing up and down. 
Now wild and fierce and fleet, 

Wavering overhead. 
Moaning in the narrow street 
As one beside the dead. 

The leaves of wrinkled gold and brown 
Fluttered here and there, 



But not quite heedless where; 
For as in hood and sad-hued gown 

The Rose of Plymouth took the air, 
They whirled, and whirled, and fell to 
rest 
Upon her gentle breast, 
Then on the happy earth her foot had 
pressed. 

Autumn is wild in Plymouth town. 

Barren and bleak and cold. 
And still the dead leaves flutter down 

As the years grow old. 
And still — forever gravely fair — 

Beneath their fitful whirl, 

New England's sweetest girl, 
Rose Standish, takes the air. 



ON KINGSTON BRIDGE 

On All Souls' Night the dead walk on Kingston 
Bridge. — Old Legend. 

On Kingston Bridge the starlight shone 
Through hurrying mists in shrouded 
glow; 
The boding night-wind made its moan. 
The mighty river crept below. 
'T was All Souls' night, and to and 
fro 
The quick and dead together walked. 
The quick and dead together talked, 
On Kingston Bridge. 



554 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Two met who had not met for years; 
Once was their hate too deep for fears: 
One drew his rapier as he came, 
Upleapt his anger like a flame. 
With clash of mail he faced his foej 
And bade him stand and meet him so. 
He felt a graveyard wind go by 
Cold, cold as was his enemy. 

A stony horror held him fast. 
The Dead looked with a ghastly stare, 

And sighed " I know thee not," and 
passed 
Like to the mist, and left him there 
On Kingston Bridge. 

'T was All Souls' night, and to and fro 
The quick and dead together walked, 
The quick and dead together talked, 
On Kingston Bridge. 

Two met who had not met for years: 
With grief that was too deep for tears 

They parted last. 
He clasped her hand, and in her eyes 
He sought Love's rapturous surprise. 
"Oh Sweet ! " he cried, ,"hast thou come 

back 
To say thou lov'st thy lover still ? " 
— Into the starlight, pale and cold. 
She gazed afar, — her hand was chill: 
" Dost thou remember how we kept 
Our ardent vigils ? — how we kissed ? — 
Take thou these kisses as of old ! " 

An icy wind about him swept; 
" I know thee not," she sighed, and passed 

Into the dim and shrouding mist 
On Kingston Bridge. 

T was All Souls' night, and to and fro 
The quick and dead together walked. 
The quick and dead together talked, 
On Kingston Bridge. 



SO WAGS THE WORLD 

Memory cannot linger long, 

Joy must die the death. 
Hope 's like a little silver song 

Fading in a breath. 
So wags the weary world away 

Forever and a day. 

But love, that sweetest madness. 
Leaps and grows in toil and sadness, 



Makes unseeing eyes to see, 
And heapeth wealth in penury. 
So wags the good old world away 
Forever and a day. 



PRAISE-GOD BAREBONES 

I AND my cousin Wildair met 

And tossed a pot together; — 
Burnt sack it was that Molly brewed, 

For it was nipping weather. 
'Fore George ! To see Dick buss the wench 

Set all the inn folk laughing ! 
They dubbed him pearl of cavaliers 

At kissing and at quaffing. 

" Oddsflsh ! " says Dick, " the sack is rare, 

And rarely burnt, fair Molly; 
'T would cure the sourest Crop-ear yet 

Of Pious Melancholy." 
" Egad ! " says I, " here cometh one 

Hath been at 's prayers but lately." 
— Sooth, Master Praise -God Barebones 
stepped 

Along the street sedately. 

Dick Wildair, with a swashing bow. 

And touch of his Toledo, 
Gave Merry Xmas to the rogue 

And bade him say his Credo; 
Next crush a cup to the King's health, 

And eke to pretty Molly; 
" 'T will cure your Saintliness," says 
Dick, 

« Of Pious Melancholy." 

Then Master Barebones stopped and 
frowned ; 

My heart stood still a minute: 
Thinks I, both Dick and I will hang, 

Or else the devil 's in it ! 
For me, I care not for old Noll, 

Nor all the Rump together. 
Yet, faith! 'tis best to be alive 

In pleasant Xmas weather. 

His worship, Barebones, grimly smiled; — 

" I love not blows nor brawling; 
Yet will I give thee, fool, a pledge ! " 

And, zooks ! he sent Dick sprawling f 
When Moll and I helped Wildair up. 

No longer trim and jolly, — 
" Feel'st not, Sir Dick," says saucy Moll, 

" A Pious Melancholy ? " 



ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON CORTISSOZ 



555 



PAMELA IN TOWN 

The fair Pamela came to town, 

To London town, in early summer; 
And up and down and round about 
The beaux discussed the bright new- 
comer. 
With " Gadzooks, sir," and " Ma'am, my 

duty," 
And " Odds my life, but 't is a Beauty ! " 

To Ranelagh went Mistress Pam, ' 

Sweet Mistress Pam so fair and merry, 
With cheeks of cream and roses blent, 
With voice of lark and lip of cherry. 
Then all the beaux vow'd 't was their duty 
To win and wear this country Beauty. 

And first Frank Lovelace tried his wit, 
With whispers bold and eyes still 
bolder; 
The warmer grew his saucy flame. 

Cold grew the charming fair and colder. 
'T was " icy bosom " — " cruel beauty " — 
" To love, sweet Mistress, 'tis a duty." 

Then Jack Carew his arts essayed, 
With honeyed sighs and feigned weep- 
ing. 
Good lack ! his billets bound the curls 
That pretty Pam she wore a-sleeping. 
Next day these curls had richer beauty. 
So well Jack's fervor did its duty. 

Then Cousin Will came up to view 

The way Pamela ruled the fashion; 
He watched the gallants crowd about. 
And flew into a rustic passion, — 
Left " Squire, his mark," on divers faces, 
And pinked Carew beneath his laces. 

Alack ! one night at Ranelagh 

The pretty Sly-boots fell a-blushing; 
And all the mettled bloods look'd round 
To see what caused that telltale flush- 
ing. 
Up stepp'd a grizzled Poet Fellow 
To dance with Pam a saltarello. 

Then Jack and Frank and Will resolved, 
With hand on sword and cutting 
glances, 
That they would lead that Graybeard 
forth 
To livelier tunes and other dances. 



But who that saw Pam's eyes a-shining 
With love and joy would see her pining ! 

And — oons ! Their wrath cool'd as 
they looked — 
That Poet stared as fierce as any ! 
He was a mighty proper man, 

With blade on hip and inches many; 
The beaux all vow'd it was their duty 
To toast some newer, softer Beauty. 

Sweet Pam she bridled, blush'd, and 
smiled — 
The wild thing loved and could but 
show it ! 
Mayhap some day you '11 see in town 
Pamela and her grizzled Poet. 
Forsooth he taught the rogue her duty, 
And won her faith, her love, her beauty. 

APRIL FANTASIE 

The fresh, bright bloom of the daffodils 
Makes gold in the garden bed. 

Gold that is like the sunbeams 
Loitering overhead. 
Bloom, bloom 

In the sun and the wind, — 

April hath a fickle mind. 

The budding twigs of the sweetbrier 

Stir as with hope and bliss 
Under the sun's soft glances, 

Under the wind's sly kiss. 
Swing, swing 
In the sun and the wind, — 
April hath a fickle mind. 

May, she calls to her little ones, 

Her flowers hiding away, 
" Never put off till to-morrow 

What you may do to-day. 
Come, come 
Through the sun and the wind, — 
April hath a fickle mind." 

QUAKER LADIES 

More shy than the shy violet, 
Hiding when the wind doth pass. 
Nestled in the nodding grass, 

With morning mist all wet. 
In open woodland ways 
The Quaker Lady ^ strays. 



1 Houstonia Caernlea. 



556 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Pale as noonday cloudlets are, 


Ho, Jean, Saint Guillotine 


Floating in the blue, 


Loves these fine beauties ! " 


This little wildwood star 




Blooms in light and dew. 


" Now those long locks must go, — 




The bridegroom is waiting; 




Short is the hour he gives 


Sun and shadow on her hair, 


To wooing and mating. 


Flowers about her feet, 


Thedie, you fool, the shears ! — 


Pale and still and sweet; 


Time this was ended." — 


As a nun all pure and fair, 


Down falls the golden hair. 


Through the soft spring air, 


Once lovingly tended. 


In the light of God 


y 


Deborah walks abroad. 


So from her prison doors 




Forth went the lady; 


Her little cap it hath a grace 


Silent the Bridegroom stood, 


Most demure and grave. 


Not a sound made he. 


And her kerchief's modest lace 


Oh, but he clasped her close ! 


Veils the lovely wave 


'T was a brave lover. — 


Above her maiden heart. 


" Dauce, dance La Carmagnole ! 


Where only gentle thoughts have part. 


The bridal is over ! " 


Even the tying of her shoe 




Hath beauty in it, too. 




A delicate, sweet art. 


A CRY FROM THE SHORE 


Hiding when the wind goes by, 


Come down, ye graybeard mariners, 


Not afraid, yet shy. 


Unto the wasting shore ! 


The tiny flower takes from the sky 


The morning winds are up, — the gods 


Life's own light and dew, 


Bid me to dream no more. 


And its exquisite hue. 


Come, tell me whither I must sail, 


And the little Quaker maid. 


What peril there may be. 


Timidly, yet not afraid. 


Before I take my life in hand 


Unfolds the sweetness of her soul 


And venture out to sea ! 


To Heavenly control. 




And wears upon her quiet face 


" We may not tell thee where to sail, 


The Spirit's tender grace. 


Nor what the dangers are ; 




Each sailor soundeth for himself. 




Each hath a separate star: 


THE BRIDE'S TOILETTE 


Each sailor soundeth for himself, 




And on the awful sea 


(the conciergerie, 1793) 


What we have learned is ours alone; 


" Dame, how the moments go — 


We may not tell it thee." 


And the bride is not ready ! 




Call all her tiring maids. 


Come back, ghostly mariners. 


Paul, Jean, and Thedie. 


Ye who have gone before ! 


Is this your robe, my dear ? 


I dread the dark, impetuous tides; 


Faith, but she 's steady ! 


I dread the farther shore. 


The bridegroom is blest who gets 


Tell me the secret of the waves; 


Such a brave lady." 


Say what my fate shall be, — 




Quick ! for the mighty winds are up, 


" Pardi ! That throat is fair — 


And will not wait for me. 


How he will kiss it ! 




Here is your kerchief, girl; 


" Hail and farewell, voyager ! 


Did you not miss it ? 


Thyself must read the waves; 


Quick, don these little shoes. 


What we have learned of sun and storm 


White as your foot is. 


Lies with us in our graves: 



MRS. CORTISSOZ — THOMAS NELSON PAGE 



557 



What we have learned of sun and storm 

Is ours alone to know. 
The winds are blowing out to sea, 

Take up thy life and go ! " 

SEA-WAY 

The tide slips up the silver sand, 

Dark night and rosy day; 
It brings sea-treasures to the land, 

Then bears them all away. 
On mighty shores from east to west 
It wails, and gropes, and cannot rest. 

O Tide, that still doth ebb and flow 
Through night to golden day : — 

Wit, learning, beauty, come and go, 
Thou giv'st — thou tak'st away. 

But some time, on some gracious shore. 

Thou shalt lie still and ebb no more. 

HARVEST 

Sweet, sweet, sweet, 

Is the wind's song, 
Astir in the rippled wheat 

All day long. 
It hath the brook's wild gayety, 
The sorrowful cry of the sea. 

Oh hush and hear ! 

Sweet, sweet and clear. 

Above the locust's whirr 

And hum of bee 
Rises that soft, pathetic harmony. 



In the meadow-grass 

The innocent white daisies blow, 
The dandelion plume doth pass 

Vaguely to and fro, — 
The unquiet spirit of a flower 
That hath too brief an hour. 

Now doth a little cloud all white, 

Or golden bright, 
Drift down the warm, blue sky; 

And now on the horizon line, 
Where dusky woodlands lie, 
A sunny mist doth shine. 
Like to a veil before a holy shrine, 
Concealing, half-revealing 
Things Divine. 

Sweet, sweet, sweet, 

Is the wind's song. 
Astir in the rippled wheat 

All day long. 
That exquisite music calls 

The reaper everywhere — 

Life and death must share, 
The golden harvest falls. 

So doth all end, — 

Honored Philosophy, 

Science and Art, 

The bloom of the heart; — 
Master, Consoler, Friend, 

Make Thou the harvest of our days 

To fall within Thy ways. 



€tjoiria)^ ^d^on ^age 



UNCLE GABE'S WHITE FOLKS 

Sarvent, Marster ! Yes, sail, dat 's me — 

Ole Unc' Gabe 's my name ; 
I thankee, Marster, I 'm 'bout, yo' see. 
" An' de ole 'ooman ? " She 's much de 
same, 
Po'ly an' 'plainin', thank de Lord ! 
But de Marster 's gwine ter come back 
from 'broad. 

" Fine ole place ? " Yes, sah, 't is so ; 
An' mighty fine people my white folks 
war — 



But you ought ter 'a' seen it years ago, 
When de Marster an' de Mistis lived up 
dyah; 
When de niggers 'd stan' all roun' de do', 
Like grains o' corn on de cornhouse flo'. 

" Live mons'ous high ? " Yes, Marster, 
yes; 
Cut 'n' onroyal 'n' gordly dash; 
Eat an' drink till you could n' res'. 

My folks war 'n' none o' yo' po'-white- 
trash ; 
No, sah, dey^was ob high degree — 
Dis heah nigger am quality I 



558 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



"Tell you 'bout 'em?" You mus' 'a' 
hearn 
'Bout my ole white folks, sho' ! 
I tell you, suh, dey was gre't an' stern; 
D' did n' have nuttin' at all to learn; 

D' knowed all dar was to know; 
Gol' ober de' head an' onder dey feet; 
An' silber ! dey sowed 't like folks sows 
wheat. 

" Use ter be rich ? " Dat war n' de wud ! 

Jes' wallowed an' roll' in wealf . 
Why, none o' my white folks ever stir'd 

Ter lif a han' for d'self ; 
E>e niggers use ter be stan'in' roun' 
Jes' d' same ez leaves when dey fus' fall 

down; 
De stable-stalls up heah at home 
Looked like teef in a fine-toof comb ; 
De cattle was p'digious — mus' tell de fac' ! 
An' de hogs mecked de hillsides look like 

black; 
An' de flocks ob sheep was so gre't an' 

white 
Dey 'peared like clouds on a moonshine 

night. 
An' when my ole Mistis use' ter walk — 
/es' ter her kerridge (dat was fur 
Ez ever she walked) — I tell you, sir, 
You could almos' heah her silk dress 

talk; 
Hit use' ter soun' like de mornin' breeze. 
When it wakes an' rustles de Gre't House 

trees. 
An' de Marster's face ! — de Marster's face, 
Whenever de Marster got right 

pleased — 
Well, I 'clar' ter Gord, 't would shine wid 

grace 
De same ez his countenance had been 

greased. 
De cellar, too, had de bes' ob wine, 
An' brandy, an' sperrits dat yo' could fine ; 
An' ev'ything in dyah was stored, 
'Skusin' de glory of de Lord ! 

" Warn' dyah a son ? " Yes, sah, you 
knows 

He 's de young Marster now; 
But we heah dat dey tooken he very clo'es 

Ter pay what ole Marster owe; 
He 's done been gone ten year, I s'pose. 
But he 's comin' back some day, of co'se; 
An' my ole 'ooman is aluz pyard. 

An' meckin' de Blue-Room baid, 



An' ev'y day dem sheets is ayard, 

An' will be till she 's daid; 
An' de styars she '11 scour, 

An' dat room she '11 ten', 

Ev'y blessed day dat de Lord do sen' ! 

What say, Marster ? Yo' say, you 
knows ? — 

He 's young an' slender-like an' fyah; 
Better-lookin' 'n you, of co'se ! 
Hi ! you 's he ? 'Fo Gord, 't is him ! 

'T is de very voice an' eyes an' hyah. 
An' mouf an' smile, on'y yo' ain' so slim — 
I wonder whah — whah 's de ole 'ooman ? 
Now let my soul 

Depart in peace, 
For I behol' 
Dy glory. Lord ! — I knowed you, chile — 

I knowed you soon 's I see'd your face ! 
Whar has you been dis blessed while ? 

Done come back an' buy de place ? 

Oh, bless de Lord for all his grace ! 
De ravins shell hunger, an' shell not lack, 
De Marster, de young Marster 's done 
come back ! 

ASHCAKE 

Well, yes, sir, dat am a comical name — 

It are so, for a fac' — 
But I knowed one, down in Ferginyer, 

Could 'a' toted dat on its back. 

" What was it ? " I 'm gwine to tell you — 

'T was mons'us long ago: 
'Twas " Ashcake," sah; an' all on us 

Use' ter call 'im jes' " Ashcake," so. 

You see, sir, my ole Marster, he 

Was a pow'ful wealfy man, 
Wid mo' plantations dan hyahs on you 
haid — 

Gre't acres o' low-groun' Ian'. 

Jeems River bottoms, dat used ter stall 

A fo'-hoss plough, no time; 
An' he 'd knock you down ef you jes' had 
dyared 

Ter study 'bout guano 'n' lime. 

De corn used ter stan' in de row dat thick 

You jes' could follow de balk; 
An' rank ! well, I 'clar 'ter de king, I 'se 
seed 

Five 'coons up a single stalk ! 



THOMAS NELSON PAGE — JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 559 



He owned mo' niggers 'n arr' a man 

About dyar, black an' bright; 
He owned so many, b'fo' de Lord, 

He didn' know all by sight ! 

Well, sir, one evelin', long to'ds dusk, 

I seen de Marster stan' 
An' watch a yaller boy pass de gate 

Wid a ashcake in his han'. 

He never had no mammy at all — 
Leastways, she was dead bj' dat — 

An' de cook an' de hands about on de place 
Used ter see dat de boy kep' fat. 

Well, he trotted along down de parf dat 
night, 
An' de Marster he seen him go, 
An' hollered, " Say, boy — say, what 's yer 
name ? " 
" A — ashcake, sir," says Joe. 

It 'peared ter tickle de Marster much, 
An' he called him up to de do'. 

" Well, dat is a curisome name," says he; 
"But I guess it suits you, sho'." 

'• Whose son are you ? " de Marster axed. 
" Young Jane's," says Joe ; " she 's daid." 



A sperrit cudden 'a' growed mo' pale, 
An' " By Gord ! " I heerd him said. 

He tuk de child 'long in de house, 

Jes' 'count o' dat ar whim; 
An', dat-time-out, you never see 

Sich sto' as he sot by him. 

An' Ashcake swung his cradle, too, 

As clean as ever you see ; 
An' stuck as close ter ole Marster's heel 

As de shader sticks to de tree. 

'Twel one dark night, when de river was 
out, 

De Marster an' Ashcake Joe 
Was comin' home an' de skiff upsot. 

An' Marster 'd 'a' drownded, sho', 

Excusin' dat Ashcake cotch'd him hard 

An' gin him holt o' de boat, 
An' saved him so; but 't was mo'n a week 

B'fo' his body corned afloat. 

An' de Marster he grieved so 'bouten dat 
thing, 

It warn' long, sah, befo' he died; 
An' he 's sleqp, way down in Ferginyer, 

Not fur from young Ashcake's side. 



3faniCj9f H^ljitcomb iHilrp 



WHEN SHE COMES HOME 

When she comes home again ! A thou- 
sand ways 
I fashion, to myself, the tenderness 
Of my glad welcome: I shall tremble — 

yes; 
And touch her, as when first in the old days 
I touched her girlish hand, nor dared up- 
raise 
Mine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet 

distress. 
Then silence: and the perfume of her dress: 
The room will sway a little, and a haze 
Cloy eyesight — soulsight, even — for a 

space ; 
And tears — yes; and the ache here in the 

throat. 
To know that I so ill deserve the place 
Her arms make for me; and the sobbing 
note 



I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face 
Again is hidden in the old embrace. 

THE OLD MAN AND JIM 

Old man never had much to say — 

'Ceptin' to Jim, — 
And Jim was the wildest boy he had. 

And the old man jes' wrapped up in him ! 
Never heerd him speak but once 
Er twice in my life, — and first time was 
Wlien the army broke out, and Jim he went. 
The old man backin' him, fer three 

months; 
And all 'at I heerd the old man say 
Was, jes' as we turned to start away, — 

"Well, good-by, Jim: 

Take keer of yourse'f ! " 

'Feared like he was more satisfied 
Jes' lookin' at Jim 



560 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



And likin' him all to hisse'f-like, see ? — 
'Cause he was Jes' wrapped up in him ! 
And over and over I mind the day 
The old man come and stood round in the 

way- 
While we was drillin', a-watchin' Jim; 
And down at the deepot a-heerin' him 
say, — 
" Well, good-by, Jim : 
Take keer of yourse'f ! " 

Never was nothin' about the farm 

Disting'ished Jim; 
Neighbors all ust to wonder why 

The old man 'peared wrapped up in him : 
But when Cap. Biggler, he writ back 
'At Jim was the bravest boy we had 
In the whole dern rigiment, white er black. 
And his fightin' good as his farmin' bad, — 
'At he had led, with a bullet clean 
Bored through his thigh, and carried the flag 
Through the bloodiest battle you ever 

seen, — 
The old man wound up a letter to him 
'At Cap. read to us, 'at said, — " Tell Jim 

Good-by ; 

And take keer of hisse'f ! " 

Jim come home jes' long enough 

To take the whim 
'At he 'd like to go back in the calvery — 

And the old man jes' wrapped up in him ! 
Jim 'lowed 'at he 'd had sich luck afore. 
Guessed he 'd tackle her three years more. 
And the old man give him a colt he 'd raised, 
And foUered him over to Camp Ben Wade, 
And laid around fer a week er so, 
Watchin' Jim on dress-parade; 
'Tel finally he rid away. 
And last he heerd was the old man say, — 

" Well, good-by, Jim: 

Take keer of yourse'f ! " 

Tuk the papers, the old man did, 

A-watchin' fer Jim, 
Fully believin' he 'd make his mark 

Some way — jes' wrapped up in him ! 
And many a time the word 'ud come 
'At stirred him up like the tap of a drum: 
At Petersburg, fer instunce, where 
Jim rid right into their cannons there, 
And tuk 'em, and p'inted 'em t' other way, 
And socked it home to the boys in gray, 
As they skooted fer timber, and on and on — 
Jim a lieutenant, — and one arm gone, — 



And the old man's words in his mind all 
day, — 
" Well, good-by, Jim: 
Take keer of yourse'f ! " 

Think of a private, now, perhaps, 

We '11 say like Jim, 
'At 's dumb clean up to the shoulder- 
straps — 

And the old man jes' wrapped up in him ! 
Think of him — with the war plum' through, 
And the glorious old Red-White-and-Blue 
A-laughiu' the news down over Jim, 
And the old man, bendin' over him — 
The surgeon turnin' away with tears 
'At had n't leaked fer years and years, 
As the hand of the dyin' boy clung to 
His Father's, the old voice in his ears, — " 

" Well, good-by, Jim : 

Take keer of yourse'f ! " 

A LIFE-LESSON 

There ! little girl, don't cry ! 

They have broken your doll, I know; 
And your tea-set blue, 
And your play-house, too, 
Are things of the long ago; 

But childish troubles will soon pass 
by.- 

There ! little girl, don't cry ! 

There ! little girl, don't cry ! 

They have broken your slate, I know; 
And the glad, wild ways 
Of your school- girl days 
Are things of the long ago; 

But life and love will soon come 
by.- 

There ! little girl, don't cry ! 

There ! little girl, don't cry ! 

They have broken your heart, I know; 
And the rainbow gleams 
Of your youthful dreams 
Are things of the long ago; 

But Heaven holds all for which you 
sigh. — 

There ! little girl, don't cry ! 

THE WAY THE BABY WOKE 

And this is the way the baby woke: 
As when in deepest drops of dew 
The shine and shadows sink and soak, 



JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 



561 



The sweet eyes glimmered through and 


Just the wee cot — the cricket's chirr — 


through ; 


Love, and the smiling face of her. 


And eddyings and dimples broke 




About the lips, and no one knew 


I pray not for 


Or could divine the words they spoke, — 


Great riches, nor 


And this is the way the baby woke. 


For vast estates and castle-halls : — 




Give me to hear the bare footfalls 


THE WAY THE BABY SLEPT 


Of children o'er 




An oaken floor 


This is the way the baby slept : 


New-rinsed with sunshine, or bespread 


A mist of tresses backward thrown 


With but the tiny coverlet 


By quavering sighs where kisses crept 


And pillow for the baby's head; 


With yearnings she had never known: 


And, pray Thou, may 


The little hands were closely kept 


The door stand open and the day 


About a lily newly blown — 


Send ever in a gentle breeze. 


And God was with her. And we wept. — 


With fragrance from the locust-trees, 


And this is the way the baby slept. 


And drowsy moan of doves, and blur 




Of robin-chirps, and drone of bees. 


BEREAVED 


With after-hushes of the stir 




Of intermingling sounds, and then 


Let me come in where you sit weeping, — 


The good wife and the smile of her 


ay, 


Filling the silences again — 


Let me, who have not any child to die, 


The cricket's call 


Weep with you for the little one whose 


And the wee cot, 


love 


Dear Lord of all. 


I have known nothing of. 


Deny me not ! 


The little arms that slowly, slowly loosed 


I pray not that 


Their pressure round your neck; the hands 


Men tremble at 


you used 


My power of place 


To kiss. — Such arms — such hands I never 


And lordly sway, — 


knew. 


I only pray for simple grace 


May I not weep with you ? 


To look my neighbor in the face 




Full honestly from day to day — 


Fain would I be of service — say some thing. 


Yield me his horny palm to hold, 


Between the tears, that would be comfort- 


And I '11 not pray 


ing> — 


For gold : — 


But ah ! so sadder than yourselves am I, 


The tanned face, garlanded with mirth, 


Who have no child to die. 


It hath the kingliest smile on earth; 




The swart brow, diamonded with sweat, 


IKE WALTON'S PRAYER 


Hath never need of coronet. 




And so I reach. 


I CRAVE, dear Lord, 


Dear Lord, to Thee, 


No boundless hoard 


And do beseech 


Of gold and gear, 


Thou givest me 


Nor jewels fine, 


The wee cot, and the cricket's chirr, 


Nor lands, nor kine. 


Love, and the glad sweet face of her. 


Nor treasure-heaps of anything. — 




Let but a little hut be mine 


ON THE DEATH OF LITTLE 


Where at the hearthstone I may hear 


MAHALA ASHCRAFT 


The cricket sing, 




And have the shine 


" Little Haly ! Little Haly ! " cheeps 


Of one glad woman's eyes to make. 


the robin in the tree; 


For my poor sake. 


" Little Haly ! " sighs the clover, " Little 


Our simple home a place divine : — 


Haly ! " moans the bee; 



562 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



'* Little Haly ! Little Haly ! " calls the 

kill-deer at twilight; 
And the katydids and crickets hollers 

« Haly ! " all the night. 

The sunflowers and the hoUyhawks droops 

over the garden fence; 
The old path down the garden-walks still 

holds her footprints' dents; 
And the well-sweep's swiugin' bucket seems 

to wait fer her to come 
And start it on its wortery errant down the 

old bee-gum. 

The bee-hives all is quiet; and tbe little 
Jersey steer, 

When any one comes nigh it, acts so lone- 
some-like and queer; 

And the little Banty chickens kindo' cut- 
ters faint and low, 

Like the hand that now was feedin' 'em 
was one they did n't know. 

They 's sorrow in the wavin' leaves of all 

the apple-trees; 
And sorrow in the harvest-sheaves, and 

sorrow in the breeze; 
And sorrow in the twitter of the swallers 

'round the shed; 
And all the song her red-bird sings is 

" Little Haly 's dead!" 

The medder 'pears to miss her, and the 

pathway through the grass, 
Whare the dewdrops ust to kiss her little 

bare feet as she passed ; 
And the old pin in the gate-post seems to 

kindo'-sorto' doubt 
That Haly's little sunburnt hands '11 ever 

pull it out. 

Did her father er her mother ever love her 
more 'n me, 

Er her sisters er her brother prize her love 
more tendurly ? 

I question — and what answer ? — only 
tears, and tears alone, 

And ev'ry neghbor's eyes is full o' tear- 
drops as my own. 

" Little Haly ! Little Haly ! " cheeps the 

robin in the tree; 
"Little Haly! "sighs the clover; "Little 

Haly ! " moans the bee; 



" Little Haly ! Little Haly ! " calls the 

kill-deer at twilight, 
And the katydids and crickets hollers 

" Haly ! " all the night. 



LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE 

Little Orphant Annie 's come to our house 

to stay. 
An' wash the cups and saucers up, an' 

brush the crumbs away, 
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' 

dust the hearth, an' sweep, 
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' 

earn her board-an'-keep; 
An' all us other children, when the supper 

things is done. 
We set around the kitchen fire an' has the 

mostest fun 
A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells 

about, 
An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you 
Ef you 
Don't 

Watch 
Out! 

Onc't they was a little boy would n't say his 

pray'rs — 
An' when he went to bed at night, away 

up stairs. 
His mammy heerd him holler, an' his 

daddy heerd him bawl, 
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he 

was n't there at all ! 
An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' 

cubby-hole, an' press. 
An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' 

ever'wheres, I guess; 
But all they ever found was thist his pants 

an' roundabout ! 
An' the Gobble-uns '11 git you 
Ef you 
Don't 

Watch 
Out! 

An' one time a little girl 'ud alius laugh an' 

grin. 
An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood- 

an'-kin ; 
An' onc't when they was " company," an' 

ole folks was there, 



JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 



563 



She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said 

she did n't care ! 
An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turu't 

to run an' hide, 
They was two great big Black Things 

a-standiu' by her side, 
An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 
'fore she knowed what she 's about ! 
An' the Gobble- uns '11 git you 
Ef you 
Don't 

Watch 
Out! 

An' little Orphant Annie says, when the 

blaze is blue. 
An' the lanipwick sputters, an' the wind 

goes woo-00 ! 
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the 

moon is gray, 
An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is allsquenched 

away, — 
You better mind yer parents, and yer teach- 
ers fond and dear, 
An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the 

orphant's tear, 
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clus- 
ters all about, 
Er the Gobble-uns '11 git you 
Ef you 
Don't 

Watch 
Out! 



DWAINIE 

FROM "THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE 
NIGHT " 

Ay, Dwainie ! — My Dwainie ! 

The lurloo ever sings, 
A tremor in his flossy crest 

And in his glossy wings. 
And Dwainie ! — My Dwainie ! 

The winno-welvers call; — 
But Dwainie hides in Spirkland 

And answers not at all. 

The teeper twitters Dwainie ! — 

The tcheucker on his spray 
Teeters up and down the wind, 

And will not fly away: 
And Dwainie ! — My Dwainie ! 

The drowsy 00 vers drawl; — 
But Dwainie hides in Spirkland 

And answers not at all. 



Dwainie ! — My Dwainie ! 

The breezes hold their breath, — 
The stars are pale as blossoms, 

And the night as still as death; 
And Dwainie ! — My Dwainie ! 

The fainting echoes fall ; — 
But Dwainie hides in Spirkland 

And answers not at all. 

HONEY DRIPPING FROM THE 
COMB 

How slight a thing may set one's fancy 
drifting 
Upon the dead sea of the Past ! — A 
view — 
Sometimes an odor — or a rooster lifting 
A f ar-ofe " OoJi ! ooh-ooh ! " 

And suddenly we find ourselves astray 
In some wood's-pasture of the Long 
Ago, — 

Or idly dream again upon a day 
Of rest we used to know. 

I bit an apple but a moment since, — 
A wilted apple that the worm had 
spurned, — 

Yet hidden in the taste were happy liints 
Of good old days returned. 

And so my heart, like some enraptured lute, 
Tinkles a tune so tender and complete, 

God's blessing must be resting on the 
fruit — 
So bitter, yet so sweet ! 

A MAN BY THE NAME OF BOLUS 

A MAN by the name of Bolus — (all 'at 

we '11 ever know 
Of the stranger's name, I reckon — and I 'm 

kindo' glad it 's so !) — 
Got off here, Christmas morning, looked 

'round the town, and then 
Kindo' sized up the folks, I guess, and — 

went away again ! 

The fac's is, this man Bolus got " run in," 

Christmas-day; 
The town turned out to see it, and cheered, 

and blocked the way; 
And they dragged him 'fore the Mayor — 

fer he could n't er would n't walk — 
And socked him down fer trial — though 

he could n't er would n't talk ! 



5^4 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Drunk ? They was no doubt of it ! — 

Wy, the marshal of the town 
Laughed and testified 'at he fell uja-stairs 

'stid o' down ! 
This man by the name of Bolus ? — W'y, 

he even drapped his jaw 
And snored on through his " hearin' " — 

drunk as yoji ever saw ! 

One feller spit in his boot-leg, and another 

'n' drapped a small 
Little chunk o' ice down his collar, — but 

he did n't wake at all ! 
And they all nearly split when his Honor 

said, in one of his witty ways. 
To " chalk it down f er him, ' Called away 

— be back in thirty days ! '" 

That 's where this man named Bolus slid, 

kindo' like in a fit. 
Flat on the floor; and — drat my ears! — 

I hear 'em a-laughin' yit ! 
Somebody fetched Doc Sifers from jest 

acrost the hall, — 
And all Doc said was, " Morphine ! We 're 

too late ! " and that 's all ! 

That 's how they found his name out — 

piece of a letter 'at read: 
" Your wife has lost her reason, and little 

Nathan's dead — 
Come ef you kin, — f ergive her — but 

Bolus, as fer me, 
This hour I send a bullet through where 

my heart ort to be ! " 

Man hy the name of Bolus! — As his re- 

vilers broke 
Fer the open air, 'peared like, to me, I 

heard a voice 'at spoke — 
Man by the name of Bolus ! git up from 

where you lay — 
Git up and smile white at 'em with your hands 

crossed thataway ! 



LONGFELLOW 

The winds have talked with him confid- 
ingly; 
The trees have whispered to him; and the 

night 
Hath held him gently as a mother might, 
And taught him all sad tones of melody; 
The mountains have bowed to him; and 

the sea, 
In clamorous waves, and murmurs exquisite, 
Hath told him all her sorrow and delight, — 
Her legends fair, — her darkest mystery. 
His verse blooms like a flower, night and 

day; 
Bees cluster round his rhymes; and twit- 
terings 
Of lark and swallow, in an endless May, 
Are mingling with the tender songs he 

sings. 
Nor shall he cease to sing — in every lay 
Of Nature's voice he sings — and will 
alway. 



LOVE'S PRAYER 

Dear Lord ! kind Lord ! 

Gracious Lord ! I pray 
Thou wilt look on all I love, 

Tenderly to-day ! 
Weed their hearts of weariness; 

Scatter every care, 
Down a wake of angel wings 

Winnowing the air. 

Bring unto the sorrowing 

All release from pain; 
Let the lips of laughter 

Overflow again; 
And with all the needy 

O divide, I pray. 
This vast treasure of content 

That is mine to-day ! 



aouijsf gjame^ 25Iocfe 



THE GARDEN WHERE THERE 
IS NO WINTER 

" Se Dio ti lasci, letter, prender frutto 
Di tua lezione." 

Behold the portal: open wide it stands, 
And the long reaches shine and still allure 



To seek their nobler depths serene, secure. 
And watch the waters kiss the yellow 

sands 
That gentle winds stir with their sweet 

commands; 
These stately growths from age to age 

endure. 



LOUIS JAMES BLOCK 



565 



These splendid blooms glow in the sunlight 

pure, 
These wondrous works of human hearts 

and hands. 
Over the charmed space no storm may 

rest, 
The gloomy hours avoid the magic bound. 
Homer dwells here, Vergil, and all the 

blest 
Whose perfumed color lights Time's mighty 

round ; 
Pluck the fruit freely, reader, and partake, 
God wills it — for the enchanted Soul's fair 

sake. 



TUBEROSE 

Flower, that I hold in my hand, 

Waxen and white and unwoful, 

Perfect with your race's lovely perfec- 
tion, 

Pure as the dream of a child just descended 
from the heavens, 

Chaste as the thought of the maid on whose 
sight first shines the glow of love's 
planet, 

Trustful as a boy who holds the world in 
hands of power unrelaxing. 

Flower, graceful, lovely, 

Lo ! I give you to the waves that roll 
across the ocean's expanses. 

I watch you like a star on the waters, 

I watch you floating away in the distance; 

The ocean gives you reception and dwell- 
ing, 

The ocean with the sweep of its world- 
encircling currents. 

With its storms and winds, — 

Mutable home where all is each and each is 
other. 

You show no signs of terror. 

You float to the mid-most whirlpool. 

You are made one with the unending 
streams. 

The moon and stars are reflected in your 
changed bosom, 

The measureless winds enfold you with love 
as a garment. 

Night and day and time are contained in 
your embraces, 

Clouds emerge from your heart and re- 
turn, 



Life and death are as slender ripples across 

your central calmness, 
Hope and wishing and longing and tumult 

are over, 
Unto the all, your cradle and grave, your 

father-mother, 
You have returned, 
O flower transfigured ! 
O flower having reached your fruition I 



FATE 

Three steps and I reach the door, 
But a whole month rolls between 

Since last I stood before 

My shut room's simple scene. 

I pause at the door and shrink, 
My hand is at point to turn, 

But I stand and dimly think 
Of all I long for and yearn. 

My life leaps up to me there. 
The past with its every deed, 

And I tremble and hardly dare 
The open mystery to read. 

A year and a day and awhile. 
Ay me ! there is none escape; 

Each thought, each dream, each smile 
Will front me in questioning shape. 

I open and see what no eyes 

Save mine have the power to see: 

Dead scenes and dead griefs arise, 
Dead follies make mouths at me. 

Yea, so: through the dark I peer, 
And shudder away from the door; 

Voices once heard I hear. 
Know faces seen long before. 



WORK 

Ah, blessedness of work ! the aimless 

mind. 
Left to pursue at will its fancies wild, 
Returns at length, like some play-wearied 

child. 
Unto its labor's knee, and leaves behind 
Its little games, and learns to soothe its 

blind 
Wide longings in the sweet tranquillity 



566 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Of limited tasks, whose mild successions 


And dolorous the barren line of shore; 


wind 


Therefore it was with lover -like de- 


In pauseless waves unto the distant 


vice 


sea; 


This lower world was built, through whose 


For blank infinity is cold as ice, 


cleft bars 


And drear the void of space unsown with 


The limitless sun of Truth shines more and 


stars, 


more. 



Sl^apburp f leming 



TO DEMETER 

Thou ever young ! Persephone but 
gazes 
Upon thy face, and shows thee back thine 
own; 
And every flock that on thy hillsides 
grazes, 
And every breeze from thy fair rivers 

blown. 
And all the nestlings from thy branches 
flown. 
Are eloquent in thy praises, 
Demeter, mother of truth. 

Thy seasons of grief, thy winters white with 
snowing. 
More lovely make thy face, adorn thy 
head. 
Add beauty to thy sweet eyes, ever glow- 
ing 
With love and strength and godhead; 

and th}' tread 
Sweetens the earth; and all the gods are 
dead 
But thee, — thee only, strowing 
Ever the land with youth. 

And all the dead gods are in thee united. 
Woman and girl and lover and friend 
and queen; 
And this tame, time-worn world is full 
requited 
For that the Christ has cost us, and the 

teen 
Bred of swift time. And thy kissed 
palms between — 
Thy dear kissed hands — are righted 
The heart-knot and the ruth. 



WHAT THOUGH THE GREEN 
LEAF GROW? 

What though the green leaf grow ? 

'T will last a month and day; 
In all sweet flowers that* blow 

Lurks Death, his slave Decay. 

But if my lady smile 

There is no Death at all; 
The world is fair the while, — 

What though the red leaf fall ? 



TO SLEEP 

Sweet wooded way in life, forgetful Sleep ! 
Dim, drowsy realm where restful shadows 

fall. 
And where the world's glare enters not at 

all. 
Or in soft glimmer making rest more 

deep; 
Where sound comes not, or else like brooks 

that keep 
The world's noise out, as by a slumberous 

wall 
Of gentlest murmur; where still whispers 

call 
To smileless gladness those that waking 

weep; 
Beneath the dense veil of thy stirless leaves. 
Where no air is except the calm of space. 
Vexed souls of men have grateful widow- 
hood 
Of tedious sense ; there thoughts are bound 

in sheaves 
By viewless hands as silent as the place; 
And man, uusinning, finds all nature good. 



MAYBURY FLEMING — W. C. LAWTON — MISS CONWAY 567 



iBilUam Cranston Hatoton 



SONG, YOUTH, AND SORROW 

Lofty against our Western dawn uprises 
Achilles : 
He among heroes alone singeth or touch- 
eth the lyre. 
Few, and dimmed by grief, are the days 
that to him are appointed ! 
Love he shall know but to lose, life but 
to cast it away. 
Dreaming of peace and a bride, he sees not 
the foes at the portal: 
Paris, a traitor to love ; Phcebus, accorder 
of song ! 

Freely he chose, do ye deem, and clave to 
the anguish and glory ? 
Rather the Fates at his birth chose, yet 
he gladly assents. 
Is it a warning that death untimely and 
bitterest sorrow. 
Sorrow in love, and death, follow the 
children of song ? 
Yet will the young man's heart still cling 
to the choice of Achilles — 
Grief, an untimely doom, fame that 
eternal abides. 



MY FATHERLAND 

The imperial boy had fallen in his pride 
Before the gates of golden Babylon. 
The host, who deemed that priceless 
treasure won, 
For many a day since then had wandered 
wide, 



By famine thinned, by savage hordes defied. 
In a deep vale, beneath the setting 

sun. 
They saw at last a swift black river run. 
While shouting spearmen thronged the 

farther side. 

Then eagerly, with startled, joyous eyes. 
Toward the desponding chief a soldier 

flew: 
" I was a slave in Athens, never knew 
My native country; but I understand 

The meaning of yon wild barbarian cries, 
And I believe this is my fatherland ! " 

This glimpse have we, no more. Did 
parents fond, 
Brothers, or kinsmen, hail his late 

return ? 
Or did he, doubly exiled, only yearn 
To greet the Euxine's waves at Trebizond, 
The bliie ^gean, and Pallas' towers 
beyond ? 
Mute is the record. We shall never 

learn. 
But as once more the well-worn page I 
turn, 
Forever by reluctant schoolboys conned, 

A parable to me the tale appears. 
Of blacker waters in a drearier vale. 
Ah me ! When on that brink we exiles 
stand, 
As earthly lights and mortal accents fail, 
Shall voices long forgotten reach our ears. 
To tell us we have found our father- 
land? 



^featjcrine (lEkanor Contoap 



THE HEAVIEST CROSS OF ALL 

I 'VE borne full many a sorrow, I 've suf- 
fered many a loss — 

But now, with a strange, new anguish, I 
carry this last dread cross; 

For of this be sure, my dearest, whatever 
thy life befall. 

The cross that our own hands fashion is the 
heaviest cross of all. 



Heavy and hard I made it in the days of 

my fair strong youth, 
Yeiling mine eyes from the blessed light, 

and closing my heart to truth. 
Pity me. Lord, whose mercy passeth my 

wildest thought. 
For I never dreamed of the bitter end of 

the work my hands had wrought ! 

In the sweet morn's flush and fragrance I 
wandered o'er dewy meadows, 



S68 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



And I hid from the fervid noontide glow 
in the cool green woodland shadows; 

And I never recked, as I sang aloud in my 
wilful, selfish glee, 

Of the mighty woe that was drawing nigh 
to darken the world for me. 

But it came at last, my dearest, — what 

need to tell thee how ? 
Mayst never know of the wild, wild woe 

that my heart is bearing now ! 
Over my summer's glory crept a damp and 

chilling shade. 
And I staggered under the heavy cross that 

my sinful hands had made. 

I go where the shadows deepen, and the 

end seems far off yet — 
God keep thee safe from the sharing of 

this woeful late regret ! 
For of this be sure, my dearest, whatever 

thy life befall. 
The crosses we make for ourselves, alas ! 

are the heaviest ones of all. 



SATURNINUS 

He might have won the highest guerdon 
that heaven to earth can give, 

For whoso falleth for justice — dying, he 
yet shall live. 

He might have left us his memory^ to flame 

as a beacon light, 
When clouds of the false world's raising 

shut the stars of heaven from sight. 

He might have left us his name to ring in 
our triumph song 

When we stand, as we '11 stand at to-mor- 
row's dawn, by the grave of a world- 
old wrong. 



For he gave thee, O mother of valiant 
sons, thou fair, and sore oppressed, 

The love of his youth and his manhood's 
choice — first-fruits of his life, and 
best. 

Thine were throb of his heart and thought 
of his brain and toil of his strong 
right hand; 

For thee he braved scorn and reviling, and 
loss of gold and laud, 

Threat and lure and false-hearted friend, 
and blight of a broken word — 

Terrors of night and delay of light — 
prison and rack and sword. 

For thee he bade death defiance — till the 

heavens opened wide. 
And his face grew bright with reflex of 

light from the face of the Crucified. 

And his crown was iu sight and his palm 
in reach and his glory all but 
won. 

And then — he failed — God help us ! with 
the worst of dying done. 

Only to die on the treacherous down by 
the hands of the tempters spread — 

Nay, nay — make way for the strangers ! 
we have no right in the dead. 

But oh, for the beacon quenched, that we 
dreamed would kindle and flame ! 

And oh, for the standard smirched and 
shamed, and the name we dare not 

nnmp ! 



o 



grave 



the shadows 



the lonesome 
gather fast; 
Only the mother, like God, forgives, and 
comforts her heart with the past. 



gfrtoin Jllusfsdl 



DE FUST BANJO 

Go 'way, fiddle ! folks is tired o' hearin' 

you a-squawkin'. 
Keep silence fur yo' betters ! — don't you 

heah de banjo talkin' ? 
About de 'possum's tail she 's gwine to 

lecter — ladies, listen ! — 



About de ha'r whut is n't dar, an' why de 
ha'r is missin': 

" Dar's gwine to be a' oberflow," said Noah, 

lookin' solemn — 
Fur Noah tuk the " Herald," an' he read 

de ribber column — 



IRWIN RUSSELL — CHARLES LEONARD MOORE 



569 



An' so he sot his hands to wuk a-cl'arin' 

timber-patches, 
An' 'lowed he 's gwine to build a boat to 

beat the steamah Natchez. 

01' Noah kep' a-nailin' an' a-chippin' an' 

a-sawin'; 
An' all de wicked neighbors kep' a-laughin' 

an' a-pshawin'; 
But Noah did n't min' 'em, knowin' whut 

wuz gwine to happen: 
An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it 

kep' a-drappin'. 

Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry 

sort o' beas'es — 
Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all 

to pieces ! 
He had a Morgan colt an' sebral head o' 

Jarsey cattle — 
An' druv 'em 'board de Ark as soon 's he 

heered de thunder rattle. 

Den sech auoder fall ob rain ! — it come so 

awful hebby, 
De ribber riz immejitly, an' busted troo de 

lebbee ; 
De people all wuz drownded out — 'cep' 

Noah an' de critters, 
An' men he 'd hired to work de boat — an' 

one to mix de bitters. 

De Ark she kep' a-sailin' an' a-sailin' an' 

a-sailin' ; 
De lion got his dander up, an' like to bruk 

de pal in'; 
De sarpints hissed; de painters yelled; tell, 

whut wid all de fussin', 
You c'u'd n't hardly heah demate a-bossin' 

'roun' an' cussin'. 

Now Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin' 
on de packet, 



Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an' c'u'd n't 

stan' de racket; 
An' so, fur to amuse he-se'f, he steamed 

some wood an' bent it. 
An' soon he had a banjo made — de fust 

dat wuz invented. 

He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made 

bridge an' screws an' aprin; 
An' fitted in a proper neck — 't wuz berry 

long an' tap'rin'; 
He tuk some tin, an' twisted him a thimble 

fur to ring it; 
An' den de mighty question riz: how wuz 

he gwine to string it ? 

De 'possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I 's 
a-singin' ; 

De ha'r 's so long an' thick an' strong, — des 
fit fur banjo-stringin'; 

Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as wash- 
day-dinner graces ; 

An' sorted ob 'em by de size, f'om little 
E's to basses. 

He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig, — 

't wuz " Nebbermin' de wedder," — 
She sonn' like forty-lebben bands a-playin' 

all togedder; 
Some went to pattin'; some to dancin': 

Noah called de figgers; 
An' Ham he sot an' knocked de tune, de 

happiest ob niggers ! 

Now, sence dat time — it 's mighty strange 

— dere 's not de slightes' showin' 
Ob any ha'r at all upon de 'possum's tail 

a-growin' ; 
An' curl's, too, dat nigger's ways: his people 

nebber los' 'em — 
Fur whar you finds de nigger — dar'sde 

banjo an' de 'possum ! 



CfjarlCigr aiconarti ^^oorc 



TO ENGLAND 

Now England lessens on my sight; 

The bastioned front of Wales, 
Discolored and indefinite. 

There like a cloud-wreath sails: 
A league, and all those thronging hills 

Must sink beneath the sea; 



But while one touch of Memory thrills, 
They yet shall stay with me. 

I claim no birthright in yon sod. 
Though thence my blood and name; 

My sires another region trod, 
Fought for another fame; 



57° 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



Yet a son's tear this moment wrongs 

My eager watching eyes, 
Land of the lordliest deeds and songs 

Since Greece was great and wise ! 

Thou hedgerow thing that queenest the 
Earth, 

What magic hast ? — what art ? 
A thousand years of work and worth 

Are clustered at thy heart: 
The ghosts of those that made thee free 

To throng thy hearth are wont; 
And as thy richest reliquary 

Thou wearest thy Abbey's front ! 

Aye, ere my distance is complete 

I see thy heroes come 
And crowd yon shadowy mountain seat, 

Still guardians of their home; 
Thy Drake, thy Nelson, and thy Bruce 

Glow out o'er dusky tides ; 
The rival Roses blend in truce. 

And King with Roundhead rides. 

And with these phantoms born to last, 

A storm of music breaks; 
And bards, pavilioned in the past, — 

Each from his tomb awakes ! 
The ring and glitter of th)"^ swords. 

Thy lovers' bloom and breath. 
By them transmuted into words. 

Redeem the world from death. 

My path is West ! My heart before 

Bounds o'er the dancing wave; 
Yet something 's left I must deplore — 

A magic wild and grave: 
Though Honor live and Romance dwell 

By mine own streams and woods, 
Yet not in spire and keep so well 

Are built such lofty moods. 

England, perchance our love were more 

If we were matched and met 
In battle squadron on the shore, 

Or here on ocean set: 
How were all other banners furled 

If that great duel rose ! 
For we alone in all the world 

Are worthy to be foes. 

If we should fail or you should fly, 
'T were but a twinned disgrace. 

For both are bound to bear on high 
The laurels of one race: — 



No fear ! new blooms shall bud above 

Upon the ancient wreath, 
For both can gentle be to Love, 

And insolent to Death. 

Land of the lion-hearted brood, 

I breathe a last adieu; 
To Her who reigns across the flood 

My loyalty is true: 
But with my service to her o'er. 

Thou, England, ownest the rest, 
For I must worship and adore 

Whate'er is brave and best. 



FROM THE "BOOK OF DAY- 
DREAMS" 

SOUL UNTO SOUL GLOOMS DARKLING 

Disguise upon disguise, and then disguise, 
Equivocations at the rose's heart, 
Life's surest pay a poet's forgeries. 
The gossamer gold coinage of our art. 
Why hope for truth ? Thy very being 

slips. 
Lost from thee, in thy crowd of masking 

moods. 
Why hope for love ? Between quick-kiss- 
ing lips 
Is room and stage for all hate's interludes. 
One with thy love thou art ! — her eyes, 

her hair 
Known to thy soul, a pure estate of bliss; 
But some least motion, look, or changed air, 
And nadir unto zenith nearer is: 
Thou mayst control her limbs, but not begin 
To know what planet rules the tides within. 

DISENCHANTMENT 

The mighty soul that is ambition's mate, 
Tied to the shiftings of a certain star. 
Forgets the circle of its mortal state 
And what its planetary aspects are, 
Till, in conjunctive course and wandering, 
Out of its trance and treasure-dream of 

hope 
It wakens, poor illusionary thing. 
Wingless, without desire, or deed, or scope. 
So have I with imaginations played 
Till I have lost life's sure and single good, 
Forgotten friendships, broken vows, and 

made 
My heart a highway for ingratitude, 



CHARLES LEONARD MOORE — EDITH MATILDA THOMAS 



571 



And, driven to the desert of the sky, 
Fear now no thing but immortality. 

OR EVER THE EARTH WAS 

That which shall last for aye can have no 

birth. 
Thou art immortal ! therefore thou hast 

been 
A voyage to which the journey of the 

earth 
Is but the shifting of some tawdry scene. 
Thou wert not absent when the camp 

began 
Of the great captains of the middle 

air, — 
Sirius and Vega and Aldebaran, — 
Myriads, and but the marshals numbered 

there ; 
Ay, earlier yet in the God-purposed void, 
The dream and desert of oblivion, 
Thou livedst, — a thought of one to be 

employed 
Ere yet Time's garments thou didst take 

and don: 
Guest that no footprint on my threshold 

leaves, — 
Speak, O dim traveller, speak: thy host 

believes ! 

THOU LIVEST, O SOUL ! 

Thou livest, O soul ! be sure, though earth 

be flames. 
Though lost be all the paths the planets 

trod. 
Thou hast not aught to do with signs and 

names, 
With Life's false art or Time's brief 

period. 



Thy being wast ere yet the heavens were 

not, 
Gently thy breath the waves of ether 

stirred, 
And often hast thou feared and oft forgot, 
Yet knew thyself when rang the parent 

Word. 
Long hast thou played at change through 

chain on chain 
Of beings, drooping now in strange descent, 
Now adding bloom to bloom and beauty's 

gain, 
Through subtle growths of glory evident. 
O earnest play, thyself apart oft smilest. 
One still at heart, that so thyself beguilest. 

THEN SHALL WE SEE 

Then shall we see and know the group 

divine, 
The sure immortals of the world's vague 

throng, 
Ceaseless continuers of the purple line, 
The equal - sceptred kings of Deed and 

Song: 
From sire to sire to Orpheus and beyond, 
Thrilled with the blood of Hector do they 

come. 
Blazoned on eyes believing, eyes too fond 
To fail to follow them unto their home. 
Hark ! their thin tread outechoes the vast 

hosts 
That shake the valleys of the globe beneath; 
Their smile is fire; their eyes (O, subtle 

ghosts !) 
Have waked in me the passion of the 

Wreath 
Without whose round not heaven itself is 

bliss, 
Nor immortality immortal is. 



(lEtiitl) Hr^atilDa €f)0ttiajsf' 



THE BETRAYAL OF THE ROSE 

A WHITE rose had a sorrow — 
And a strange sorrow ! 

For her sisters they had none, 

As they all sat around her 

Each on her feudal throne. 
A strange sorrow 

For one with no to-morrow, 



1 See, also, p. 



No yesterday, to call her own, 
But only to-day. 

A white rose had a sorrow — 
And a sweet sorrow ! 

She had locked it in her breast 
Save that one outer petal. 
Less guarded than the rest 
(Oh, fond sorrow !), 



572 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



From the red rose did borrow 
Blushes, and the truth confessed 
In the red rose's way ! 



THE TEARS OF THE POPLARS 

Hath not the dark stream closed above 

thy head, 
With envy of thy light, thou shining one ? 
Hast thou not, murmuring, made* thy 

dreamless bed 
Where blooms the asphodel, far from all 

sun ? 
But thou — thou dost obtain oblivious 

ease. 
While here we rock and moan — thy 

funeral trees. 

Have we not flung our tresses on the 

stream ? 
Hath not thy friend, the snowy cygnet, 

grieved, 
And ofttimes watched for thy returning 

beam. 
With arched neck — and ofttimes been 

deceived ? 
A thousand years, and yet a thousand more. 
Hast thou been mourned upon this reedy 

shore. 

How long, how long since, all the summer 

day, 
Earth heard the heavens sound from pole 

to pole, 
While legion (flouds stood forth in bright 

array ; 
Yet no rain followed on the thunder's 

roll ! 
Beneath that glittering legion shrank the 

seas. 
And fire unseen was borne upon the breeze. 

The ground was smouldering fire beneath 
our tread. 

The forest dropped the leaf, and failed all 
grass. 

The souls of stricken men their bodies 

fled, 
-And, sighing, flocked the wind. — We heard 
them pass ! 

The priest, that scanned the portent of the 
skies. 

Fell reeling back, with pierced and shriv- 
elled eyes. 



But ah, be saw not what our sight dis- 
cerned — 

The flying chariot- wheel, with fervid tire — 

The steeds that unaccustomed guidance 
spurned 

With fateful hoof and breath that scattered 
fire — 

He saw not thee and thine unmeasured 
fall, 

And Jove, unheeding, in his cloudy hall ! 

Dragged headlong by those swift immortal 

horse. 
Up to our sire went thy vain cry for aid; 
Neither he cast a bound, to check their 

course, 
Nor on the .golden rein a hand he laid. 
Brother beloved, what foe could so deceive, 
Bidding thee dare what scarcely gods 

achieve ? 

Alas ! that we remember — and forget ! 
For, if we sometimes gain a brief repose. 
Soon are we roused, by sudden fear beset; 
Then, through our silver boughs a shudder 

goes. 
Our heads we lift, we search the azure 

gloom, 
As though thou still wert falling to thy 

doom ! 

Upon the earth no loves were ever ours ; 
Man greets us from afar, but comes not 

near. 
Nor even round our dark unwindowed 

towers 
Throng the light birds — so much our grief 

they fear ! 
We sigh — we tremble — 'tis not to the 

breeze — 
Brother beloved, we are thy funeral trees ! 



THE QUIET PILGRIM 

ISAIAH XXXVIII. 15 

When on my soul in nakedness 
His swift, avertless hand did press. 
Then I stood still, nor cried aloud. 
Nor murmured low in ashes bowed; 
And, since my woe is utterless, 
To supreme quiet I am vowed; 
Afar from me be moan and tears, — 
I shall go softly all my years. 



EDITH MATILDA THOMAS 



573 



Wbenso my quick, light-sandaled feet 
Bring me where Joys and Pleasures meet, 
I mingle with their throng at will; 
They know me not an alien still, 
Since neither words nor ways unsweet 
Of stored bitterness I spill; 
Youth shuns me not, nor gladness fears, — 
For I go softly all my years. 

Whenso I come where Griefs convene, 
And in my ear their voice is keen. 
They know me not, as on I glide, 
That with Arch Sorrow I abide. 
They haggard are, and drooped of mien, 
And round their brows have cypress tied: 
Such shows I leave to light Grief's peers, — 
I shall go softly all my years. 

Yea, softly ! heart of hearts unknown. 
Silence hath speech that passeth moan. 
More piercing-keen than breathed cries 
To such as heed, made sorrow-wise. 
But save this voice without a tone, 
That runs before me to the skies, 
And rings above thy ringing spheres, 
Lord, I go softly all my years ! 



MOTHER ENGLAND 



There was a rover from a western shore, 
England ! whose eyes the sudden tears did 

drown. 
Beholding the white cliff and sunny down 
Of thy good realm, beyond the sea's 

uproar. 
I, for a moment, dreamed that, long be- 
fore, 
I had beheld them thus, when, with the 

frown 
Of sovereignty, the victor's palm and 

crown 
Thou from the tilting-field of nations bore. 
Thy prowess and thy glory dazzled first; 
But when in fields I saw the tender 

flame 
Of primroses, and full-fleeced lambs at 

play, 
Meseemed I at thy breast, -Kke these, was 

nursed; 
Then mother — Mother England ! — home 

I came, 
Like one who hath been all too long away I 



As nestling at thy feet in peace I lay, 

A thought awoke and restless stirred in 

me: 
" My land and congeners are beyond the 

sea. 
Theirs is the morning and the evening 

day. 
Wilt thou give ear while this of them I say: 
' Haughty art thou, and they are bold and 

free, 
As well befits who have descent from thee. 
And who have trodden brave the forlorn 

way. 
Children of thine, but grown to strong 

estate ; 
Nor scorn from thee would they be slow 

to pay. 
Nor check from thee submissly would 

they bear; 
Yet, Mother England ! yet their hearts are 

great. 
And if for thee should dawn some darkest 

day. 
At cry of thine, how proudly would they 

dare ! ' " 



BREATH OF HAMPSTEAD 
HEATH 

The wind of Hampstead Heath still burns 

my cheek 
As, home returned, I muse, and see arise 
Those rounded hills beneath the low, gray 

skies, 
With gleams of haze-lapped cities far to 

seek. 
These can I picture, but how fitly speak 
Of what might not be seen with searching 

eyes. 
And all beyond the listening ear that lies. 
Best known to bards and seers in times 

antique ? 
The winds that of the spirit rise and blow 
Kindle my thought, and shall for many a 

day. 
Recalling what blithe presence filled the 

place 
Of one who oftentimes passed up that way. 
By garden close and lane where boughs 

bend low, 
Until the breath of Hampstead touched his 

face. 



574 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



THEFTS OF THE MORNING 

Bind us the Morning, mother of the stars 
And of the winds that usher in the day ! 
Ere her light fingers slide the eastern bars, 
A netted snare before her footsteps lay; 
Ere the pale roses of the mist be strown, 
Bind us the Morning, and restore our own ! 

With her have passed all things we held 

most dear, 
Most subtly guarded from her amorous 

stealth ; 
We nothing gathered, toiling year by year, 
But she hath claimed it for increase of 

wealth ; 
Our gems make bright her crown, incrust 

her throne: 
Bind us the Morning, and restore our own ! 

Where are they gone, who round our 
myrtles played, 

Or bent the vines' rich fruitage to our 
hands. 

Or breathed deep song from out the lau- 
rels' shade ? 

She drew them to her, — who can slack the 
bands ? 

What lure she used, what toils, was never 
known : 

Bind us the Morning, and restore our own ! 

Enough that for her sake Orion died. 
Slain by the silver Archer of the sky, — 
That Ilion's prince amid her splendors wide 
Lies chained by age, nor wins his prayer 

to die; 
Enough ! but hark ! Our captive loves 

make moan: 
Bind us the Morning, and restore our own ! 

We have beheld them whom we lost of old. 
Among her choiring Hours, in sorrow 

bowed. 
A moment gleam their faces, faint and 

cold, 
Through some high oriel window wreathed 

with cloud, 
Or on the wind before her they are blown: 
Bind us the Morning, and restore our own ! 

They do her service at the noiseless looms 
That weave the misty vesture of the liills; 
Their tears are drink to thirsting grass and 
blooms, 



Their breath the darkling wood-bird wakes 

and thrills; 
Us too they seek, but far adrift are thrown: 
Bind us the Morning, and restore our own ! 

Yea, cry her Thief ! from where the light 
doth break 

To where it merges in the western deep ! 

If aught of ours she, startled, should for- 
sake, 

Such waifs the waiting Night for us will 
keep. 

But stay not; still pursue her, falsely flown: 

Bind us the Morning, and restore our own ! 



FROST 

How small a tooth hath mined the season's 

heart ! 
How cold a touch hath set the wood on fire, 
Until it blazes like a costly pyre 
Built for some Ganges emperor, old and 

swart. 
Soul-sped on clouds of incense ! Whose 

the art 
That webs the streams, each morn, with 

silver wire, 
Delicate as the tension of a lyre, — 
Whose falchion pries the chestnut-butr 

apart ? 
It is the Frost, a rude and Gothic sprite. 
Who doth unbuild the Summer's palaced 

wealth. 
And puts her dear loves all to sword or 

flight; 
Yet in the hushed, unmindful winter's 

night 
The spoiler builds again with jealous 

stealth. 
And sets a mimic garden, cold and bright. 



QUATRAINS 

THE SOUL IN THE BODY 

What if the Soul her real life elsewhere 

holds, 
Her faint reflex Time's darkling stream 

enfolds. 
And thou and I, though seeming dwellers 

here, 
Live somewhere yonder in the starlit 

sphere ? 



EDITH MATILDA THOMAS 



575 



INSOMNIA 

A HOUSE of sleepers — I, alone unblest, 
Am yet awake and empty vigil keep. 

When these, who spend life's day with me, 
find rest, 
Oh, let me not be last to fall asleep ! 

TO IMAGINATION 

One day thou didst desert me — then I 

learned 
How looks the world to men that lack thy 

grace. 
And toward the shadowy night sick-hearted 

turned, — 
When, lo ! the first star brought me back 

thy face ! 



A FAR CRY TO HEAVEN 

What ! dost thou pray that the outgone 

tide be rolled back on the strand. 
The flame be rekindled that mounted away 

from the smouldering brand. 
The past-summer harvest flow golden 

through stubble-landsnakedandsere, 
The winter-gray woods npgather and 

quicken the leaves of last year ? — 
Thy prayers are as clouds in a drouth; 

regardless, unfruitful, they roll; 
For this, that thou prayest vain things, 't is 

a far cry to Heaven, my soul, — 
Oh, a far cry to Heaven ! 

Thou drearaest the word shall return, shot 

arrow-like into the air. 
The wound in the breast where it lodged 

be balmed and closed for thy prayer, 
The ear of the dead be imsealed, till thou 

whisper a boon once denied. 
The white hour of life be restored, that 

passed thee unprized, unde- 

scribed ! — 
Thy prayers are as runners that faint, that 

fail, Mdthin sight of the goal. 
For this, that thou prayest fond things, 't is 

a far cry to Heaven, my soul, — 
Oh, a far cry to Heaven ! 

And cravest thou fondly the quivering sands 

shall be firm to thy feet. 
The brackish pool of the waste to thy lips 

be made wholesome and sweet ? 



And cravest thou subtly the bane thou 

desirest be wrought to thy good, 
As forth from a poisonous flower a bee 

conveyeth safe food ? 
For this, that thou prayest ill things, thy 

prayers are an anger-rent scroll; 
The chamber of audit is closed, — 't is a 

far cry to Heaven, my soul, — 
Oh, a far cry to Heaven ! 



THE MOTHER WHO DIED TOO 

She was so little — little in her grave. 
The wide earth all around so hard and 
cold — 
She was so little ! therefore did I crave 
My arms might still her tender form 
enfold. 
She was so little, and her cry so weak 
When she among the heavenly children 
came — 
She was so little — I alone might speak 
For her who knew no word nor her own 
name. 



WINTER SLEEP 

I KNOW it must be winter (though I sleep) — 
I know it must be winter, for I dream 
I dip my bare feet in the running stream. 

And flowers are many, and the grass grows 
deep. 

I know I must be old (how age deceives !) -^ 
I know I must be old, for, all unseen, 
My heart grows young, as autumn fields 
grow green. 
When late rains patter on the falling 
sheaves. 

I know I must be tired (and tired souls 
err) — 
I know I must be tired, for all my soul 
To deeds of daring beats a glad, faint 
roll. 
As storms the riven pine to music stir. 

I know I must be dying (Death draws 
near) — 
I know I must be dying, for I crave 
Life — life, strong life, and think not of 
the grave. 
And turf-bound silence, in the frosty year. 



576 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



FROM "THE INVERTED 
TORCH " 

WHEN IN THE FIRST GREAT HOUR 

When in the first great hour of sleep 
supreme 

I saw my Dearest fair and tranquil lie, 

Swift ran through all my soul this wonder- 
cry: 

** How hast thou met and vanquished hate 
extreme ! " 

For by thy faint white smiling thou didst 
seem, 

Sweet Magnanimity ! to half defy, 

Half pity, those ill things thou hadst put 

That are the haunters of our lif e s dim 

dream. 
Pain, error, grief, and fear — poor shadows 

all— . 

I, to thy triumph caught, saw fail and 

fade. 

Yet as some muser, when the embers 
fall, 

The low lamp flickers out, starts up dis- 
mayed. 

So I awoke, to find me still Time's thrall, 

Time's sport, — nor by thy warm, safe 
presence stayed. 

TELL ME 

Tell me, is there sovereign cure 
For heart-ache, heart-ache, — 

Cordial quick and potion sure. 
For heart-ache, heart-ache ? 

Fret thou not. If all else fail 
For heart-ache, heart-ache, 

One thing surely will avail, — 
That 's heart-break, heart-break ! 



IF STILL THEY LIVE 

If still they live, whom touch nor sight 
Nor any subtlest sense can prove. 

Though dwelling past our day and night, 
At farthest star's remove, — 

Oh, not because these skies they change 
For upper deeps of sky unknown. 

Shall that which made them ours, grow 
strange. 
For spirit holds its own; 

Whether it pace this earth around. 
Or cross, with printless, buoyant feet, 

The unreverberant Profound 
That hath no name nor mete ! 



WILL IT BE SO ? 

Oft have I wakened ere the spring of 

day. 
And, from my window looking forth, have 

found 
All dim and strange the long-familiar 

ground. 
But soon I saw the mist glide slow away, 
And leave the hills in wonted green array, 
While from the stream-sides and the fields 

around 
Rose many a pensive day-entreating sound, 
And the deep-breasted woodlands seemed 

to pray. 
Will it be even so when first we wake 
Beyond the Night in which are merged all 

nights, — 
The soul sleep-heavy and forlorn will ache, 
Deeming herself midst alien sounds and 

sights ? 
Then will the gradual Day with comfort 

break 
Along the old deeps of being, the old 

heights ? 



dSamuel lai^inturn ^eth 



SASSAFRAS 

Fringing cypress forests dim 

Where the owl makes weird abode, 

Bending down with spicy limb 
O'er the old plantation road. 



Through the swamp and up the hill. 
Where the dappled byways run. 

Round the gin-house, by the mill, 
Floats its incense to the sun. 



SAMUEL MINTURN PECK 



577 



Swift to catch the voice of spring, 

Soon its tasselled blooms appear; 
Modest is their blossoming, 

Breathing balm and waving cheer; 
Rare the greeting that they send 

To the fragrant wildwood blooms, 
Bidding every blossom blend 

In a chorus of perfumes. 

On it leans the blackberry vine, 

With white sprays caressingly; 
Round its knees the wild peas twine, 

Beckoning to the yellow bee; 
Through its boughs the red-bird flits 

Like a living flake of fire. 
And with love-enlightened wits 

Weaves his nest and tunes his lyre. 

Oh, where skies are summer-kissed, 

And the drowsy days are long, 
'Neath the sassafras to list 

To the field-hand's mellow song ! 
Or, more sweet than chimes that hang 

In some old cathedral dome. 
Catch the distant klingle-klang 

Of the cow-bells tinkling home ! 

A SOUTHERN GIRL 

Her dimpled cheeks are pale; 
She 's a lily of the vale, 

Not a rose. 
In a muslin or a lawn 
She is fairer than the dawn 

To her beaux. 

Her boots are slim and neat, — 
She is vain about her feet. 

It is said. 
She amputates her r's. 
But her eyes are like the stars 

Overhead. 

On a balcony at night, 
With a fleecy cloud of white 

Round her hair — 
Her grace, ah, who could paint ? 
She would fascinate a saint, 

I declare. 

'T is a matter of regret. 
She 's a bit of a coquette, 

Whom I sing: 
On her cruel path she goes 
With a half a dozen beaux 

To her string. 



But let all that pass by. 
As her maiden moments fly, 

De w-empearled ; 
When she marries, on my life, 
She will make the dearest wife 

In the world. 

THE CAPTAIN'S FEATHER 

The dew is on the heather. 

The moon is in the sky, 
And the captain's waving feather 

Proclaims the hour is nigh 
When some upon their horses 

Shall through the battle ride, 
And some with bleeding corses 

Must on the heather bide. 

The dust is on the heather. 

The moon is in the sky. 
And about the captain's feather 

The bolts of battle fly; 
But hark, what sudden wonder 

Breaks forth upon the gloom ? 
It is the cannon's thunder — 

It is the voice of doom ! 

The blood is on the heather, 

The night is in the sky. 
And the gallant captain's feather 

Shall wave no more on high ; 
The grave and holy brother 

To God is saying Mass, 
But who shall tell his mother, 

And who shall tell his lass ? 

MY LITTLE GIRL 

My little girl is nested 

Within her tiny bed, 
With amber ringlets crested 

Around her dainty head; 
She lies so calm and stillj'^, 

She breathes so soft and low. 
She calls to mind a lily 

Half-hidden in the snow. 

A weary little mortal 

Has gone to slumberland; 
The Pixies at the portal 

Have caught her by the hand. 
She dreams her broken dolly 

Will soon be mended there, 
That looks so melancholy 

Upon the rocking-chair. 



578 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD— DIVISION II 



I kiss your wayward tresses, 
My drowsy little queen; 

I know you have caresses 
From floating forms unseen. 



O, Angels, let me keep lier 
To kiss away my cares, 

This darling little sleeper. 
Who has my love and prayers J 



3llrtt)ur JDcnttDottlft ^gamilton €aton 



PRAY FOR THE DEAD 

Pray for the dead — who bids thee not ? 
Do all our human loves grow pale, 
Or are the old needs all forgot 
When men have passed within the veil ? 

Shall prayer's strong pleadings pierce the 

skies 
For those we still keep with us here, 
And not a single wish arise 
For loved ones in a happier sphere ? 

Have they no conquests yet to win. 
No rugged heights of truth to climb; 
Does no strange syllable of sin 
Mar the soft cadence of their rhyme; 

Or has God snapped the strong, sweet ties 
He took such loving pains to weld, 
And said, " Henceforth their memories 
In prayerless silence must be held " ? 

Pray for the dead: the links that bound 
Thy soul to theirs were forged on high; 
Borne upward, they have surely found 
The chain still fastened in the sky. 

And who of us so wise to say 
That they have lost the need of prayer ! 
Heaven's gates are not so far away 
That earth goes unremembered there. 

Pray for the dead, nor dare 'repress 
Thy longings at the throne of grace; 
Our dead ones are more dear, not less, 
In the pure presence of God's face. 

And strength and faith are needed, there 
As here, inspired life to win — 
Nor see alone the gateways fair 
Of Heaven's great life, but enter in. 

Love well and pray for all thy dead : 
God gives thee such sweet liberty. 
He means where'er their souls are sped. 
That they shall be in touch with thee. 



THE EGYPTIAN LOTUS 

(in an artificial pond) 

Proud, languid lily of the sacred Nile, 
'T is strange to see thee on our Western 

wave. 
Far from those sandy shores, that mile on 

mile. 
Papyrus- plumed, stretch silent as the grave. 

O'er dark, mysterious pool and sheltered 

bay. 
And round deep dreaming isles thy leaves 

expand. 
Where Alexandrian barges plough their 

way. 
Full-freighted, to the ancient Theban land. 

On Karnak's lofty columns thou wert 

seen. 
And spacious Luxor's temple-palace walls, 
Each royal Pharaoh's emeralded queen 
Chose thee to deck her glittering banquet 

halls ; 

Yet thou art blossoming on this fairy lake 
As regally, amidst these common things. 
As on the shores where Nile's soft ripples 

break. 
As in the halls of old Egyptian kings. 

Thy grace charms, day by day, men's curi- 
ous eyes. 

But he whose outer senses thought has 
probed, 

Looking at thee, sees stately temples rise 

About him, and long lines of priests, white- 
robed. 

That chant strange music as they slowly 

pace 
Dim columned aisles; hears, trembling 

overhead. 
Echoes that lose themselves in that vast 

space. 
Of Egypt's solemn ritual for the dead. 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



579 



Ay, deeper thoughts than these, though 

undefined, 
Wake in the quickened soul at sight of 

thee, 
For this majestic orient faith enshrined 
Man's yearning hope of immortality. 



And thou wert Egypt's symbol of the power 
That under all decaying form lies hid; 
The old world worshipped thee, O Lotus 

flower. 
Then carved its sphinx and reared its 

pyramid. 



^DUttional ^electtoujS 

(various poems belonging to this division) 



I 



LITTLE WILD BABY i 

Through the fierce fever I nursed him, 

and then he said 
I was the woman — I ! — that he would wed; 
He sent a boat with men for his own white 

priest, 
And lie gave my father horses, and made a 

feast. 
I am his wife : if he has forgotten me, 
I will not live for scorning eyes to see. 
{Little ivild baby, that knowest not where thou 

art going, 
Lie still ! lie still ! Thy mother will do the 

rowing.') 

Three moons ago — it was but three moons 

ago — 
He took his gun, and started across the 

snow; 
For the river was frozen, the river that 

still goes down 
Every day, as I watch it, to find the town; 
The town whose name I caught from his 

sleeping lips, 
A place of many people and many ships. 
(Little wild baby, that knowest not where thou 

art going, 
Lie still ! lie still ! Thy mother will do the 

rowing.) 

I to that town am going, to search the 

place. 
With his little white son in my arms, till I 

see his face. 
Only once shall I need to look in his eyes, 
To see if his soul, as I knew it, lives or dies. 



If it lives, we liVe, and if it is dead, we 

die, 
And the soul of my baby will never ask me 

why. 
{Little wild baby, that knowest not where thou 

art going. 
Lie still! lie still! Thy mother will do the 

rowing.) 

I have asked about the river: one answered 
me, 

That after the town it goes to find the sea; 

That great waves, able to break the stout- 
est bark. 

Are there, and the sea is very deep and 
dark. 

If he is happy without me, so best, so best; 

I will take his baby, and go away to my 
rest. 

{Little wild baby, that knowest not where thou 
art going, 

Lie still ! lie still ! Thy mother will do the 
rowing. 

The river flows swiftly, the sea is dark and 



Little wild baby, lie still ! Lie still and sleep.) 

Margaret Thomson Janvier 
(" Margaret Vandegrift ") 



VIV^ROLS 

Beyond the sea, I know not where, 
There is a town called Viv^rols ; 
I know not if 'tis near or far, 
I know not what its features are, 
I only know 'tis Vivdrols. 



* See Biographical Note, p. 803. 



58o 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



I know not if its ancient walls 
By vine and moss be overgrown; 

I know not if the night-owl calls 
From feudal battlements of stone, 
Inhabited by him alone. 

I know not if mid meadow-lands 
Knee-deep in corn stands Vivdrols; 

I know not if prosperity 

■Has robbed its life of poesy; 
That could not be in Vivdrols, 
They would not call it Vivdrols. 

Perchance upon its terraced heights 

The grapes grow purple in the sun; 
Or down its wild untrodden crags, 
Its broken cliffs and frost-bit jags. 
The mountain brooks unfettered run. 

I cannot fancy Viv^rols 

A place of gaudy pomp and show, 
A " Grand Etablissement des Eaux," 

Where to restore their withered lives 
The rou^s of the city go. 

Nor yet a place where Poverty 

No ray of happiness lets in; 
Where wanders hopeless beggary 

Mid scenes of sorrow, want, and sin. 
That could not be in Viverols; 
There 's life and cheer in Viverols ! 

Perchance among the clouds it lies, 

Mid vapors out from Dreamland blown; 

Built up from vague remembrances. 
That never yet had form in stone, — 
Its castles built of cloud alone. 

I only know, should thou and I 

Through its old walls of crumbling 
stone 

Together wander all alone, 
No spot on earth could be more fair 

Than ivy-covered Viverols ! 
No grass be greener anywhere, 
No bluer sky nor softer air 

Than we should find in Vivdrols. 

Love, we may wander far or near, 
The sun shines bright o'er Viverols; 

Green is the grass, the skies are clear; 

No clouds obscure our pathway, dear; 
Where love is, there is Viverols, — 
There is no other Viverols. 

David Starr Jordan 



HE'D NOTHING BUT HIS 
VIOLIN 

He 'd nothing but his violin, 

I 'd nothing but my song, 

But we were wed when skies were blue 

And summer days were long; 

And when we rested by the hedge, 

The robins came and told 

How they had dared to woo and win, 

When early Spring was cold. 

We sometimes supped on dew-berries, 

Or slept among the hay. 

But oft the farmers' wives at eve 

Came out to hear us play; 

The rare old songs, the dear old tunes, — 

We could not starve for long 

While my man had his violin. 

And I my sweet love-song. 

Mary Kyle Dallas 

WHAT MY LOVER SAID 

By the merest chance, in the twilight gloom. 

In the orchard path he met me ; 
In the tall, wet grass, with its faint perfume, 
And I tried to pass, but he made no room. 

Oh, I tried, but he would not let me. 
So I stood and blushed till the grass grew 
red. 

With my face bent down above it. 
While he took my hand as he whispering 

said — 
{How the clover lifted each pink, sweet head 
To listen to all that my lover said, — 

Oh, the clover in bloom, I love it !) 

In the high, wet grass went the path to hide. 

And the low, wet leaves hung over; 
But I could not pass upon either side, 
For I found myself, when I vainly tried. 

In the arms of my steadfast lover. 
And he held me there and he raised my 
head, 
While he closed the path before me, 
And he looked down into my eyes and 

said — 
(How the leaves bent down from the boughs 

overhead. 
To listen to all that my lover said, — 
Oh, the leaves hanging lowly o'er me !) 

Had he moved aside but a little way, 
I could surely then have passed him; 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



581 



And he knew I never could wish to stay, 
And would not have heard what he had to 
say, 

Could I only aside have cast him. 
It was almost dark, and the moments sped, 

And the searching night wind found us. 
But he drew me nearer and softly said — 
{How the pure sweet wind grew still, instead, 
To listen to all that my lover said, — 

Oh, the whispering loind around us !) 

I am sure he knew, when he held nie fast, 

That I must be all unwilling; 
For I tried to go, and I would have passed. 
As the night was come with its dew, at 
last. 
And the sky with its stars was filling. 
But he clasped me close when I would have 
fled. 
And he made me hear his story. 
And his soul came out from his lips and 

said — 
(How the stars crept out where the white moon 

led. 
To listen to all that my lover said, — 
Oh, the moon and the stars in glory !) 

1 know that the grass and the leaves will 
not tell. 
And I'm sure that the wind, precious 
rover, 
Will carry my secret so safely and well 

That no being shall ever discover 
One word of the many that rapidly fell 
From the soul-speaking lips of my lover; 
And the moon and the stars that looked 
over 
Shall never reveal what a fairy-like spell 
They wove round about us that night in 
the dell. 
In the path through the dew-laden clover. 
Nor echo the whispers that made my heart 
swell 
As they fell from the lips of my lover. 

Homer Greene 



UNLESS 

O TOUCH me not, unless thy soul 

Can claim my soul as thine; 
Give me no earthly flowers that fade, 

No love, but love divine: 
For I gave thee immortal flowers. 
That bloomed serene in heavenly bowers. 

Look not with favor on my face, 

Nor answer my caress. 
Unless my soul have first found grace 

Within thy sight ; express 
Only the truth, though it should be 
Cold as the ice on northern sea. 

O never speak of love to me, 

Unless thy heart can feel 
That in the face of Deity 

Thou wouldst that love reveal: 
For God is love, and His bright law 
Should find our hearts without one flaw. 

Ella Dietz Glynes 

WINTER TWILIGHT 

Soft-sandalled twilight, handmaid of the 

night, 
Before her noble lady's radiant face 
Doth slowly come, with gentle, quiet pace. 
And draweth rose and azure curtains light 
Around the snowy couch, so pure, so white, 
Whereon her mistress soon will rest. 

With grace 
Celestial she doth cover every trace 
Of toil, and daily soil doth hide from sight. 
So would I that before thy face my love 
Might gently move, and ever from above 
Such tender beauty draw about thy way 
That when thou liest down to nightly rest 
Earth-thoughts should fade, and there 

should only stay 
The peace of heaven within thy tranquil 

breast. 

George Tracy Elliot 



II 



UNDER THE RED CROSS 

She came and went as comes and goes 

A fragrance in the morning air, 
Where lay the shadowy shapes of those 
Who died in her sweet care. 



Some doubted, when her face had 

flown, 
Whether it was or only seemed, — 
Whether one saw what he had known 

Or something he had dreamed. 



582 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



And near a trampled field at night 

Wan eyes, still following her afar, 

Saw round that head a saintlier light 

Than came from moon or star. 

The wreck, the roar, the murk, the glare 
Were nought to her; she simply knew 
God's broken images were there 

Where healing hands were few. 

Chauncey Hickox 

A CHILD'S QUESTION 

" What is it to be dead ? " O Life, 

Close-held within my own. 
What foul breath in the air is rife ? 

What voice malign, unknown, 
Hath dared this whisper faint and dread, 
" What is — what is it to be dead ? " 

Who told you that the song-bird died ? 

They had no right to say 
This to my child — I know we cried 

When Robin " went away; " 
But this strange thing we never said. 
That what we loved so could be dead. 

Give me your hands, my only boy ! 

Health throbs in every vein; 
Thou hast not dreamed of earth's alloy, 

Nor stepped where guilt has lain; 

sweet young life ! O baby breath ! 
What hast thou now to do with death ? 

1 even framed for thy dear sake 
Anew the childish prayer, 

Lest, " If I die before I wake," 

Should rouse a thought or care. 
Mother of Christ, was this a sin — 
To watch where death might enter in ? 

Too late ! The Angel of the Flame 
Relentless cries: " Go hence ! " 

I think of Eden's sin and shame; 
I gaze — on innocence ! 

And still the curse ? Must I arise 

And lead my own from Paradise ! 

I see the wide, the awful world 

Loom up beyond the gate ; 
I see his pure soul tossed and whirled — 

My child ! I pray thee wait ! 
Ask me not what the Angel saith ; 
My soul this day hath tasted death ! 

Emma Huntington Nason 



THE MYSTERY 

You gave me roses, love, last night. 
When the sea was blue and the skies were 

bright ; 
And the earth was aglow with a golden 

light 
When you gave me roses, love, last night. 

Lilies I lay by your side to-day, 

And your face — it is colder and whiter 

than they; 
And I linger and listen and wonder and 

pray. 
As I bring you lilies to-day. 

Lilian Whiting 



THOMAS A KEMPIS 
(de imitatione christi) 

Turn with me from the city's clamorous 

street. 
Where throng and push passions and lusts 

and hate. 
And enter, through this age-browned, ivied 

gate. 
For many summers' birds a sure retreat. 
The place of perfect peace. And here, 

ixiost meet ^ 

For meditation, where no idle prate 
Of the world's ways may come, rest thee 

and wait. 
'T is very quiet. Thus doth still Heaven 

entreat. 
With reverent feet, his face so worn, so 

fair. 
Walks one who bears the cross, who waits 

the crown. 
Tumult is past. In those calm eyes I see 
The image of the Master, Christ, alone. 
And from those patient lips I hear one 

prayer: 
" Dear Lord, dear Lord, that I may be like 

thee ! " 

Richard Rogers Bowker 



KELPIUS'S HYMN 

O God, thy moon is on the hills. 
Thy stars are in the sky. 

Thy Spirit this mortal vessel fills, 
I feel the end is nigh; 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



583 



Swift meteors flame across the north, 

The golden planets wheel and sink, 
Soon steps thy trumpet-angel forth 

From Heaven's eternal brink; 
Then peace illumes these warlike ways, 

Christ's joyful chiliad has its birth, 
A round of Eden's perfect days, 

Thy kingdom comes upon the earth ! 

My eyes are dim, my hands are weak, 
My soul is scarred with sin, 



But day and night thy Word I seek. 

That I a crown may win. 
Cleanse thou and make my spirit pure 

As are the spirits of thy saints; 
Like them in bliss would I endure 

When earthly body faints. 
Far up on Heaven's resplendent height 

I hear the circling cherubs sing, 
As downward to this world of night 

The New Jerusalem they bring ! 

Arthur Peterson 



III 



TWO ARGOSIES 1 

(antonio's and Shakespeare's) 

" The ducats take ! I '11 sign the bond 
to-day : 
No storm can wreck Antonio's white- 
winged fleet; 
My stately ships secure ride every bay 
From Tripolis to Indies' golden seat. 
The ducats take, Bassanio, go thy way; 

Thy Portia win, and bid me to the feast; 
Ten thousand men Antonio's nod obey. 

And of ten thousand Shylock is the least. 
I '11 sign the bond, thy words cannot avail, 
No chance can reach the wealth I share 
with thee: 
I stand secure, let cruel fortune rail 

Till Venice sleeps beneath bright Adria's 
sea." 
Fate heard the boast — a thousand 

vessels lay 
'Mid rocks and sands to waves an idle 
prey. 

The dramas take ! That bond at least is 
sure; 
Twelve thousand words more dear than 
ducats are 
Outride the storms of ages and endure. 
Safe anchored here within the shifting 
bar 
Of changing speech. Eternal now his 
tongue, 
By right divine, sways all the world with 
grace : 
Great bond of all — the words sweet Shake- 
speare sung; 

I Copyright, 1894, by Habpeb & Bkothees. 



His commerce brings the nations face to 
face. 
His dramas take ! Their wealth shall still 
survive; 
His argosies care not for time or fate; 
All else may pass, and crowding centuries 
strive, 
That bond alone is not determinate. 
In him proud Albion lives entire and 

hale. 
Her titled language crowned in high 
entail. 

Wallace Bruce 



IN THE OLD CHURCHYARD AT 
FREDERICKSBURG 2 

In the old churchyard at Fredericksburg 

A gravestone stands to-day, 
Marking the place where a grave has 

been. 
Though many and many a year has it seen 
Since its tenant mouldered away. 
And that quaintly carved old stone 
Tells its simple tale to all: — 
" Here lies a bearer of the pall 
At the funeral of Shakespeare." 

There in the churchyard at Fi'edericksburg 

I wandered all alone. 
Thinking sadly on empty fame. 
How the great dead are but a name, — 
To few are they really known. 
Then upon this battered stone 
My listless eye did fall, 
Where lay the bearer of the pall 
At the funeral of Shakespeare. 
2 See BiOGBAPHicAL Note, p. 807. 



584 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD— DIVISION II 



Then in the churchyard at Fredericksburg 


As here, beneath this stone. 


It seemed as though the air 


Lay in his narrow hall 


Were peopled with phantoms that swept 


He who before had borne the pall 


by, 


At the funeral of Shakespeare. 


Flitting along before my eye, 




So sad, so sweet, so fair; 


And I left the old churchyard at Freder- 


Hovering about this stone. 


icksburg; 


By some strange spirit's call. 


Still did the tall grass wave. 


Where lay a bearer of the pall 


With a strange and beautiful grace, 


At the funera,l of Shakespeare. 


Over the sad and lonely place, 




Where hidden lay the grave ; 


For in the churchyard at Fredericksburg 


And still did the quaint old stone 


Juliet seemed to love, 


Tell its wonderful tale to all: — 


Hamlet mused, and the old Lear fell, 


" Here lies a bearer of the pall 


Beatrice laughed, and Ariel 


At the funeral of Shakespeare." 


Gleamed through the skies above, 


Frederick Wadsworth Loring 



IV 



THE AZTEC CITY 

There is a clouded city, gone to rest 

Beyond the crest 
Where cordilleras mar the mystic west. 

There suns unheeded rise and re-arise; 

And in the skies 
The harvest moon unnoticed lives and 
dies. 

And yet this clouded city has no night — 

Volcanic light 
Compels eternal noontide, redly bright. 

A thousand wells, whence cooling waters 
came. 
No more the same, 
Now send aloft a thousand jets of flame. 

This clouded city is enchanting fair. 

For rich and rare 
From sculptured frieze the gilded griffins 
stare. 

With level look — with loving, hopeful 
face, 
Fixed upon space, 
Stand caryatides of unknown race, 

And colonnades of dark green serpentine, 

Of strange design, 
Carved on whose shafts queer alphabets 
combine. 



And there are lofty temples, rich and 
great. 
And at the gate. 
Carved in obsidian, the lions wait. 

And from triumphant arches, looking 

down 
Upon the town, 
In porphyry, sad, unknown statesmen 

frown. 

And there are palace homes, and stately 
walls, 
And open halls 

Where fountains are, with voiceless water- 
falls. 

The ruddy fire incessantly illumes 

Temples and tombs, 
And in its blaze the stone-wrought cactus 
blooms. 

From clouds congealed the mercury dis- 
tils, 
And, forming rills, 
Adown the streets in double streamlet 
trills. 

As rains from clouds, that summer skies 

eclipse, 
From turret-tips 
And spire and porch the mobile metal 

drips. 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



58s 



No one that visited this fiery hive 

Ever alive 
Came out but me — I, I alone, survive. 

Eugene Fitch Ware 
("Ironquill ") 



WERE-WOLF 

Runs the wind along the waste, 
Run the clouds across the moon, 
Ghastly shadows run in haste 
From snowy dune to dune — 
Blue shadows o'er the ghastly white 
Spectral gleaming in the night. 
But ghastlier, more spectral still, 
What fearful thing speeds hither, 
Running, running, running 
Swifter than cloud or wind ? 
What omen of nameless ill, 
Whence coming, speeding whither, 
Running, running, running. 
Leaves all save fear behind ? 

Leaning, leaning in the race. 

Breath keen-drawn through nostrils tense. 

Fell eyes in ruthless face, 

What goblin of malevolence 

Runs through the frozen night 

In superhuman flight ? 

See it run, run, run. 

Outstripping the shadows that fly ! • 

Hear the fiend's heart beat, beat, 

Beat, beat, beat in its breast ! 

Running, running, running on 



Under the frozen sky, 
Fleet, so fearfully fleet. 
Pausing never to rest. 

Clutched — what is clutched so tight '^ 

In its lean, cold hands as it speeds ? 

Something soft, something white. 

Something human, that bleeds ? 

Is it an infant's curly head. 

And innocent limbs, gnawed and red ? 

Fleeter and yet more fleet 

It leans, leans and runs; 

Dabbled with blood are its awful lips. 

Grinning in horrible glee. 

The wolves that follow with scurrying feet. 

Sniffing that goblin scent, at once 

Scatter in terror, while it slips 

Away, to the shore of the frozen sea. 

Away ! is it man ? is it woman, 
On such dread meat to feed ? 
Away ! is it beast ? is it human ? 
Or is it a fiend indeed ? 
Fiend from human loins begotten, 
Hell-inspired, God-forgotten ! 
Now the midnight hour draws on: 
Human form no fiend may keep 
Or ever that mystic hour is told. 
Lower, lower, lower it bends. 
Midnight is come — is come and gone ! 
Down on all fours see it plunge and leap ! 
A human yell in a wolf's howl ends ! . . . 
What gaunt, gray thing gallops on o'er 
the world ? 

Julian Hawthorne 



V 



THE GOLDEN AGE 

This world was not 

As it now is seen: 
It once was clothed 

With a deeper green; 
And rarer gems 

Than the ice-caves hold 
The sea brought up 

On the sands of gold. 

But rust of ages. 

The breath of Time, 
The meadows covered 



With early rime; 
And the wild grass faded, 

The gems were gone. 
And the wave fell cold 

As it thundered on. 

In bygone ages 

The world was fair, 
And the moon-god played 

With her golden hair; 
And the paling stars 

With love-white arms 
Bent down to welcome 

A sister's charms. 



586 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



The air lay sweet 

With the breath of pines; 
The hill-tops glowed 

With their wealth of mines; 
And sweet, and low, 

And rich, and free, 
The wild, dark music 

Stole over the sea. 

And the sea-waves laughed 

At the saffron moon; 
And the musk-rose smiled 

With her soul of June ; 
And the golden age 

Of Nature's years 
No warning heard 

Of her coming tears. 

But the hand of man 

Was the sword of death: 
A poison lurked 

In his savage breath, 
And the wealth of years 

And the glow of years 
Were drowned in a flood 

Of swelling tears. 

The world was fair 

In the days of yore; 
But that golden age 

Shall come no more. 
The sun may shine. 

And wild flowers bloom; 
But the goal of all 

Is the open tomb, — 

The end of all 

Is the silent grave; 
And beauty lies 

In the cold still wave. 
And the world shall harden 

The hearts of men 
Till it hear the voice 

Of its Christ again. 

Ernest Francisco Fenollosa 



THE MAN WITH THE HOE 

A REPLY 

Let us a little permit Nature to tate her own way: 
she better understands her own affairs than we. — 
Montaigne. 

Nature reads not our labels, " great " and 

" small " ; 
Accepts she one and all 



Who, striving, win and hold the vacant 

place ; 
All are of royal race. 

Him, there, rough-cast, with rigid arm and 

limb, 
The Mother moulded him, 

Of his rude realm ruler and demigod, 
Lord of the rock and clod. 

With Nature is no " better " and no 

" worse," 
On this bared head no curse. 

Humbled it is and bowed ; so is he crowned 
Whose kingdom is the ground. 

Diverse the burdens on the one stern road 
Where bears each back its load; 

Varied the toil, but neither high nor low. 
With pen or sword or hoe, 

He that has put out strength, lo, he is 

strong; 
Of him with spade or song 

Nature but questions, — " This one, shall 

he stay ? " 
She answers " Yea," or " Nay," 

"Well, ill, he digs, he sings; " and he bides 

on, 
Or shudders, and is gone. 

Strength shall he have, the toiler, strength 

and grace, 
So fitted to his place 

As he leaned, there, an oak where sea 

winds blow. 
Our brother with the hoe. 

No blot, no monster, no unsightly thing. 
The soil's long-lineaged king; 

His changeless realm, he knows it and 

commands; 
Erect enough he stands, 

Tall as his toil. Nor does he bow unblest: 
Labor he has, and rest. 

Need was, need is, and need will ever be 
For him and such as he; 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



587 



Cast for the gap, with gnarled arm and 

limb, 
The Mother moulded him, — 

Long wrought, and moulded him with 

mother's care, 
Before she set him there. ■* 

And aye she gives him, mindful of her own. 
Peace of the plant, the stone; 

Yea, since above his work he may not 

rise, 
She makes the field his skies. 



See ! she that bore him, and metes out the 

lot. 
He serves her. Vex him not 

To scorn the rock whence he was hewn, the 

pit 
And what was digged from it; 

Lest he no more in native virtue stand. 
The earth-sword in his hand, 

But follow sorry phantoms to and fro. 
And let a kingdom go. 

John Vance Cheney 1 



VI 



"GOSSAMER WEFT" 

WHENEVER A LITTLE CHILD IS BORN 

Whenever a little child is born, 
All night a soft wind rocks the corn ; 
One more buttercup wakes to the morn. 
Somewhere, somewhere. 

One more rosebud shy will unfold. 

One more grass-blade push through the 

mold. 
One more bird-song the air will hold. 
Somewhere, somewhere. 

Agnes Carter Mason 

MORNING 

Will there really be a morning ? 
Is there such a thing as day ? 
Could I see it from the mountains 
If I were as tall as they ? 
Has it feet like water lilies ? 
Has it feathers like a bird ? 
Is it brought from famous countries 
Of which I 've never heard ? 
Oh some scholar, oh some sailor. 
Oh some wise man from the skies, 
Please to tell a little pilgrim 
Where the place called morning lies. 

Emily Dickinson 2 

SNOWFLAKES 

Whenever a snowflake leaves the sky, 
It turns and turns to say " Good-by ! 
Good-by, dear clouds, so cool and gray ! " 
Then lightly travels on its way. 

^ See p. 515 ; also, Bioqbaphical Note, p. 785. 



And when a snowflake finds a tree, 

" Good-day ! " it says — " Good-day to thee ! 

Thou art so bare and lonely, dear, 

I '11 rest and call my comrades here." 

But when a snowflake, brave and meek, 
Lights on a rosy maiden's cheek. 
It starts — " How warm and soft the day ! 
'T is summer ! " — and it melts away. 

Mary Mapes Dodge 3 

WHY IT WAS COLD IN MAY 

The Year had all the Days in charge, 

And promised them that they 
Should each one see the World in turn, 

But ten Days ran away ! 
Ten Days that should have gone abroad 

Sometime in early May — 
So, when May came, and all was fair. 

These Days were sent to bed. 
And ten good Winter Days were sent. 

To see the World instead ! 

Henrietta Robins Eliot 

THISTLE-DOWN 

Never a beak has my white bird. 

Nor throat for song; 
But wings of silk by soft wind stirred 

Bear it along. 

With wings of silk and a heart of seed. 

Over field and town 
It sails, — ah ! quaint little bird indeed 

Is the thistle-down. 

Clara Doty Bates 
« See, also, p. 320. s See, also, p. 392. 



588 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION II 



A LITTLE BOY S VAIN REGRET 

He was six years old, just six that day, 
And I saw he had something important to 

say 
As he held in his hand a broken toy. 
He looked in my face for an instant, and 

then 
He said, with a sigh, and a downcast 

eye, 
" If I could live my life over again, 
I think I could be a better boy ! " 

Edith Matilda Thomas i 

A MORTIFYING MISTAKE 

I STUDIED my tables over and over, and 

backward and forward, too; 
But I couldn't remember six times nine, 

and I did n't know what to do, 
Till sister told me to play with my doll, and 

not to bother my head. 
" If you call her ' Fifty-four ' for a while, 

you '11 learn it by heart," she said. 

So I took my favorite, Mary Ann (though I 
thought 't was a dreadful shame 

To give such a perfectly lovely child such a 
perfectly horrid name). 

And I called her my dear little " Fifty- 
four " a hundred times, till I knew 

The answer of six times nine as well as the 
answer of two times two. 

Next day Elizabeth Wigglesworth, who 

always acts so proud. 
Said, " Six times nine is fifty-two," and I 

nearly laughed aloud ! 
But I wished I had n't when teacher said, 

" Now, Dorothy, tell if you can." 
For I thought of my doll and — sakes 

alive ! — I answered, "Mary Ann ! " 
Anna M. Pratt 

EARLY NEWS 

The sparrow told it to the robin, 
The robin told it to the wren. 
Who passed it on, with sweet remark, 
To thrush, and bobolink, and lark. 
The news that dawn had come again. 

Anna M. Pratt 
* See, also, p. 571. * See, also, 



A MILLION LITTLE DIAMONDS 

A MILLION little diamonds 
Twinkled on the trees; 
And all the little maidens said: 
*' A jewel, if you please !" 
But while they held their hands outstretched, 
To catch the diamonds gay, 
A million little sunbeams came, 
And stole them all away. . 

Mary Frances Butts 2 



ONLY ONE 

Hundreds of stars in the pretty sky; 

Hundreds of shells on the shore together; 
Hundreds of birds that go singing by; 

Hundreds of bees in the sunny weather. 

Hundreds of dewdrops to greet the dawn; 

Hundreds of lambs in the purple clover; 
Hundreds of butterflies on the lawn; 

But only one mother the wide world over. 
George Cooper 

LULLABY 

RocKABY, lullaby, bees in the clover ! 
Crooning so drowsily, crying so low, 
Rockaby, lullaby, dear little rover ! 

Down into wonderland, 

Down to the under-land, 
Gro, now go ! 
Down into wonderland go. 

Rockaby, lullaby, rain on the clover, 
(Tears on the eyelids that waver and weep !) 
Rockaby, lullaby — bending it over ! 
Down on the mother-world, 
Down on the other world. 
Sleep, oh sleep ! 
Down on the mother-world sleep. 

Rockaby, lullaby, dew on the clover. 
Dew on the eyes that will sparkle at 

dawn ! 
Rockaby, lullaby, dear little rover ! 
Into the stilly world. 
Into the lily world. 

Gone ! now gone ! 
Into the lily world gone. 

JosiAH Gilbert Holland s 
p. 468. 3 See, also, p. 233. 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



589 



VII 



IMPROMPTUS 

WRITTEN IN THE VISITORS' BOOK AT 
THE BIRTHPLACE OF ROBERT BURNS 

Of heavenly stature, but most human 
smile, 
Gyved with our faults he stands. 
Truth's white and Love's red roses tender- 
ing us. 
Whose thorns are in his hands. 

THE NEW ARRIVAL 
There came to port last Sunday night 

The queerest little craft. 
Without an inch of rigging on; 

I looked and looked — and laughed ! 
It seemed so curious that she 

Should cross the Unknown water, 
And moor herself within my room — 

My daughter ! O, my daughter ! 

Yet by these presents witness all " 

She 's welcome fifty times, 
And comes consigned in hope and love — 

And common-metre rhymes. 
She has no manifest but this; 

No flag floats o'er the water; 
She 's too new for the British Lloyds — 

My daughter ! O, my daughter ! 

Ring out, wild bells — and tame ones 
too; 

Ring out the lover's moon. 
Ring in the little worsted socks, 

Ring in the bib and spoon. 
Ring out the muse, ring in the nurse, 

Ring in the milk and water. 
Away with paper, pen, and ink — 

My daughter ! O, my daughter ! 

George Washington Cable 

THOUGHTS ON THE COM- 
MANDMENTS 

" Love your neighbor as yourself," — 

So the parson preaches: 
That 's one half the Decalogue, — 

So the prayer-book teaches. 
Half my duty I can do 

With but little labor. 
For with all my heart and soul 

I do love my neighbor. 



Mighty little credit, that. 

To my self-denial; 
Not to love her, though, might be 

Something of a trial. 
Why, the rosy light, that peeps 

Through the glass above her, 
Lingers round her lips, — you see 

E'en the sunbeams love her. 

So to make my merit more, 

I '11 go beyond the letter: — 
Love my neighbor as myself ? 

Yes, and ten times better. 
For she 's sweeter than the breath 

Of the Spring, that passes 
Through the fragrant, budding woods, 

O'er the meadow-grasses. 

And I 've preached the word I know, 

For it was my duty 
To convert the stubborn heart 

Of the little beauty. 
Once again success has crowned 

Missionary labor. 
For her sweet eyes own that she 

Also loves her neighbor. 

George Augustus Baker 

AN AMERICAN GIRL 

She 's had a Vassar education. 

And points with pride to her degrees; 

She 's studied household decoration; 
She knows a dado from a frieze. 
And tells Corots from Boldonis; 

A Jacquemart etching, or a Haden, 

A Whistler, too, perchance might please 

A free and frank young Yankee maiden. 

She does not care for meditation ; 

Within her bonnet are no bees; 
She has a gentle animation. 

She joins in singing simple glees. 

She tries no trills, no rivalries 
With Lucca (now Baronin Raden), 

With Nilsson or with Gerster; she 's 
A frank and free young Yankee maiden. 

I 'm blessed above the whole creation, 

Far, far above all other he's; 
I ask you for congratulation 

On this the best of jubilees: 



59° 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



I go with her across the seas 
Unto what Poe would call an Aiden, — 

I hope no serpent 's there to tease 
A frank and free young Yankee maiden. 

ENVOY 

Princes, to you the western breeze 
Bears many a ship and heavy laden. 

What is the best we send in these ? 

A free and frank young Yankee maiden. 

Brander Matthews 

TO JESSIE'S DANCING FEET 

How, as a spider's web is spun 

With subtle grace and art, 

Do thy light footsteps, every one, 

Cross and recross my heart ! 

Now here, now there, and to and* fro, 

Their winding mazes turn; 

Thy fairy feet so lightly go 

They seem the earth to spurn. 

Yet every step leaves there behind 

A something, in thy dance. 

That serves to tangle up my mind 

And all my soul entrance. 



How, as the web the spiders spin 

And wanton breezes blow, 

Thy soft and filmy laces in 

A swirl around thee flow ! 

The cobweb 'neath thy chin that 's crossed 

Remains demurely put. 

While those are ever whirled and tossed. 

That show thy saucy foot; 

That show the silver grayness of 

Thy stockings' silken sheen. 

And mesh of snowy skirts above 

The silver that is seen. 

How, as the spider, from his web, 

Dangles in light suspense, 

Do thy sweet measures' flow and ebb 

Sway my enraptured sense ! 

Thy fluttering lace, thy dainty airs. 

Thy every charming pose — 

There are not more alluring snares 

To bind me with than those. 

Swing on ! Sway on ! With easy grace 

Thy witching steps repeat ! 

The love I dare not — to thy face — 

I offer at thy feet. 

William De Lancey Ellwanger 



DIVISION III 



(WOODBERRY, BUNNER, MRS. PULLEN, MISS REESE, H. S. MORRIS, MISS CONE, BURTON, 
SHERMAN, GARLAND, MISS MONROE, MISS GUINEY, AND OTHERS) 



(BtotQt (j^titDart! IBootiliettp 



FROM "WILD EDEN "I 

WHEN FIRST I SAW HER 

When first I saw her, at the stroke 

The heart of nature in me spoke; 

The very landscape smiled more sweet. 

Lit by her eyes, pressed by her feet; 

She made the stars of heaven more bright 

By sleeping under them at night; 

And fairer made the flowers of May 

By being lovelier than they. 

Softly down where the sunshine spread, 
Dark in the grass I laid my head; 
And let the lights of earth depart 

1 Copyright, 1899, by 



To find her image in my heart; 
While through my being came and went 
Tones of some heavenly instrument, 
As if where its blind motions roll 
This world should wake and be a soul. 

THE SECRET 

Nightingales warble about it 

All night imder blossom and star; 
The wild swan is dying without it, 

And the eagle crieth afar; 
The sun, he doth mount but to find it, 

Searching the green earth o'er; 
But more doth a man's heart mind it — 

O moye, more, more ! 
The Macmillan Coufant.. 



GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY 



591 



Over the gray leagues of ocean 

The infinite yearneth alone; 
The forests with wandering emotion 

The thing they know not intone; 
Creation arose but to see it, 

A million lamps in the blue; 
But a lover, he shall be it, 

If one sweet maid is true. 

O, INEXPRESSIBLE AS SWEET 

O, INEXPRESSIBLE as sweet, 

Love takes my voice away; 
I cannot tell thee when we meet 

What most I long to say. 

But hadst thou hearing in thy heart 

To know what beats in mine, 
Then shouldst thou walk, where'er thou art, 

In melodies divine. 

So warbling birds lift higher notes 

Than to our ears belong; 
The music fills their throbbing throats, 

Bat silence steals the song. 

THE ROSE OF STARS 

When Love, our great Immortal, 

Put on mortality, 
And down from Eden's portal 

Brought this sweet life to be, 
At the sublime archangel 

He laughed with veiled eyes, 
For he bore within his bosom 

The seed of Paradise. 

He hid it in his bosom, 

And there such warmth it found, 
It brake in bud and blossom, 

And the rose fell on the ground; 
As the green light on the prairie. 

As the red light on the sea, 
Through fragrant belts of summer 

Came this sweet life to be. 

And the grave archangel seeing 

Spread his mighty wings for flight, 
But the glow hung round him fleeing 

Like the rose of an Arctic night;. 
And sadly moving heavenward 

By Venus and by Mars, 
He heard the joyful planets 

Hail Earth,, the Rose of Stars. 



divine awe 

To tremble, when I touch her hands, 
With awe that no man understands; 
To feel soft reverence arise 
When, lover-sweet, I meet her eyes; 
To see her beauty grow and shine 
When most I feel this awe divine, — 
Whate'er befall me, this is mine; 
And where about the room she moves, 
My spirit follows her, and loves. 

HOMEWARD BOUND 



Into the west of the waters on the living 

ocean's foam, 
Into the west of the sunset where the young 

adventurers roam, 
Into the west of the shining star, I am 

sailing, sailing home; 
Home from the lonely cities, time's wreck, 

and the naked woe. 
Home through the clean great waters where 

freemen's pennants blow, 
Home to the land men dream of, where all 

the nations go; 
'T is home but to be on the waters, 't is home 

already here. 
Through the weird red-billowing sunset into 

the west to steer. 
To fall asleep in the rocking dark with 

home a day more near. 



By morning light the ship holds on, alive 

with happy freight, 
A thousand hearts with one still joy, and 

with one hope elate. 
To reach the land that mothered them and 

sweetly guides their fate; 
Whether the purple furrow heaps the bows 

with dazzling spray. 
Or buried in green-based masses they dip 

the storm-swept day. 
Or the white fog ribbons o'er them, the 

strong ship holds her way; 
And when another day is done, by the star 

of love we steer 
To the land of all that we love best and all 

that we hold dear; 
We are sailing westward, homeward j our 

western home is near. 



592 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



THE CHILD 

It was only the clinging touch 
Of a child's hand in the street, 
But it made the whole day sweet; 
Caught, as he ran full-speed, 
In my own stretched out to his need, 
Caught, and saved from the fall. 
As I held, for the moment's poise. 
In m}^ circling arms the whole boy's 
Delicate slightness, warmed mould; 
Mine, for au instant mine, 
The sweetest thing the heart can di- 
vine. 
More precious than fame or gold, 
The crown of many joys, 
Lay in my breast, all mine. 

I was nothing to him; 

He neither looked up nor spoke; 

1 never saw his eyes; 

He was gone ere my mind awoke 

From the action's quick surprise 

With vision blurred and dim. 

You say I ask too much: 

Ilr was only the clinging touch 

Of a child in a city street; 

It hath made the whole day sweet. 

O, STRUCK BENEATH THE LAUREL 

0, STRUCK beneath the laurel, where the 

singing fountains are, 
I saw from heaven falling the star of love 

afar; 
O, slain in Eden's bower nigh the bourn 

where lovers rest, 
I fell upon the arrow that was buried in 

my breast; 
Fare well the noble labor, farewell the silent 

pain. 
Farewell the perfect honor of the long years 

lived in vain; 
I lie upon the moorland where the wood 

and pasture meet, 
And the cords that no man breaketh are 

bound about my feet. 

SO SLOW TO DIE 

The rainbow on the ocean 

A moment bright. 
The nightingale's devotion 

That dies on night, 



Eve's rosy star a-tremble 

Its hour of light, — 
All things that love resemble 

Too soon take flight. 

The violets we cherish 

Died in the spring; 
Roses and lilies perish 

In what they bring; 
And joy and beauty wholly 

With life depart; 
But love leaves slow, how slowly ! 

Life's empty heart. 

O, strange to me, and wondrous, 

The storm passed by. 
With sound of voices thund'rous 

Swept from the sky; 
But stranger, love, thy fashion, — 

O, tell me why 
Art thou, dark storm of passion, 

So slow to die ? 

As roll the billowy ridges 

When the great gale has blown o'er; 
As the long winter-dirges 

From frozen branches pour; 
As the whole sea's harsh December 

Pounds on the pine-hung shore; 
So will love's deep remember. 

So will deep love deplore. 

SEAWARD 

I WILL rise, I will go from the places that 
are dark with passion and pain, 

From the sorrow-changed woodlands and a 
thousand memories slain. 

light gone out in darkness on the cliff I 

seek no more 

Where she I worshipped met me in her 
girlhood at the door ! 

O, bright though years how many ! fare- 
well, sweet guiding star — 

The wild wind blows me seaward over the 
harbor-bar ! 

Better thy waste, gray Ocean, the homeless, 
heaving plain, 

Than to choke the fount of life and the 
flower of honor stain ! 

1 will seek thy blessed shelter, deep bosom 

of sun and storm, 
From the fever and fret of the earth and 

the things that debase and deform ; 
For I am thine ; from of old thou didst lay 

me, a child, at rest 



GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY 



593 



In thy cradle of many waters, and gav'st 

to my hunger thy breast; 
Remember the dreamful boy whom thy 

beauty preserved from wrong, — 
Thou taughtest me music, O Singer of the 

never-sileut song ! 
Man-grown, I will seek thy healing ; though 

from worse than death I fly. 
Not mine the heart of the craven, not here 

I mean to die ! 
Let me taste on my lips thy salt, let me live 

with the sun and the rain, 
Let me lean to the rolling wave and feel 



me man again 



O, make thee a sheaf of arrows as when 
thy winters rage forth, — 

Whiten me as thy deep-sea waves with the 
blanching breath of the North ! 

O, take thee a bundle of spears from thine 
azure of burning drouth. 

Smite into my pulses the tremors, the fer- 
vors, the blaze of the South ! 

So might my breath be snow-cold, and my 
blood be pure like fire, 

The heavenly souls that have left me will 
come back to sustain and inspire. 

Take me — I come — O, save me in the 
paths my fathers trod ! 

Then fling me back to the battle where 
men labor the peace of God ! 



FROM "MY COUNTRY" 

O DESTINED Land, unto thy citadel. 
What founding fates even now doth peace 

compel. 
That through the world thy name is sweet 

to tell ! 
O throned Freedom, unto thee is brought 
Empire ; nor falsehood nor blood-payment 
asked; 
Who never through deceit thy ends hast 
sought. 
Nor toiling millions for ambition tasked; 
Unlike the fools who build the throne 

On fraud, and wrong, and woe; 
For man at last will take his own, 
Nor count the overthrow; 
But far from these is set thy continent. 

Nor fears the Revolution in man's rise; 
On laws that with the weal of all consent, 
And saving truths that make the people 
wise: 



For thou art founded in the eternal fact 
That every man doth greaten with the 

act 
Of freedom; and doth strengthen with the 

weight 
Of duty; and diviner moulds his fate, 
By sharp experience taught the thing he 

lacked, 
God's pupil; thy large maxim framed, 

though late, 
Who masters best himself best serves the 

State. 
This wisdom is thy Corner: next the stone 
Of Bounty; thou hast given all; thy store. 
Free as the air, and broadcast as the light, 
Thou flingest; and the fair and gracious 

sight. 
More rich, doth teach thy sons this happy 

lore: 
That no man lives who takes not priceless 

gifts 
Both of thy substance and thy laws, whereto 
He may not plead desert, but holds of 

thee 
A childhood title, shared with all who grew, 
His brethren of the hearth; whence no 

man lifts 
Above the common right his claim; nor 

dares 
To fence his pastures of the common good: 
For common are thy fields; common the 

toil; 
Common the charter of prosperity. 
That gives to each that all may blessed be. 
This is the very counsel of thy soil. 
Therefore, if any thrive, mean-souled he 

spares 
The alms he took; let him not think sub- 
dued 
The State's first law, that civic rights are 

strong 
But while the fruits of all to all belong; 
Although he heir the fortune of the earth, 
Let him not hoard, nor spend it for his 

mirth, 
But match his private means with public 

worth. 
That man in whom the people's riches lie 
Is the great citizen, in his country's eye. 
Justice, the third great base, that shall 

secure 
To each his earnings, howsoever poor, 
From each his duties, howsoever great. 
She bids the future for the past atone. 
Behold her symbols on the hoary stone — 



594 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



The awful scales and that war-hammered 
beam 

Which whoso thinks to break doth fondly 
dream, 

Or Czars who tyrannize or mobs that rage; 

These are her charge, and heaven's eternal 
law. 

She from old fountains doth new judg- 
ment draw. 

Till, word by word, the ancient order 
swerves 

To the true course more nigh; in every 
age 

A little she creates, but more preserves. 

Hope stands the last, a mighty prop of fate. 

These thy foundations are, O firm-set State ! 



ON A PORTRAIT OF COLUMBUS 

Was this his face, and these the finding 

eyes 
That plucked a new world from the rolling 

seas ? 
Who, serving Christ, whom most he sought 

to please. 
Willed his one thought until he saw arise 
Man's other home and earthly paradise — 
His early vision, when with stalwart knees 
He pushed the boat from his young olive- 
trees, 
And sailed to wrest the secret of the skies ? 
He on the waters dared to set his feet, 
And through believing planted earth's last 

race. 
What faith in man must in our new world 

beat. 
Thinking how once he saw before his face 
The west and all the host of stars retreat 
Into the silent infinite of space ! 



AMERICA TO ENGLAND 

Mother of nations, of them eldest we, 
Well is it found, and happy for the state. 
When that which makes men proud first 

makest them great, 
And such our fortune is who sprang from 

thee. 
And brought to this new land from over 

sea 
The faith that can with every household 

mate, 



And freedom whereof law is magistrate. 
And thoughts that make men brave, and 

leave them free. 
O Mother of our faith, our law, our lore. 
What shall we answer thee if thou shouldst 

ask 
How this fair birthright doth in us increase ? 
There is no home but Christ is at the door; 
Freely our toiling millions choose life's 

task; 
Justice we love, and next to justice peace. 



AT GIBRALTAR 



England, I stand on thy imperial ground, 
Not all a stranger; as thy bugles blow, 
I feel within my blood old battles flow, — 
The blood whose ancient founts in thee are 

found. 
Still surging dark against the Christian 

bound 
Wide Islam presses; well its peoples know 
Thy heights that watch them wandering 

below; 
I think how Lucknow heard their gathering 

sound. 
I turn, and meet the cruel, turbaned face. 
England, 'tis sweet to be so much thy son ! 
I feel the conqueror in my blood and race ; 
Last night Trafalgar awed me, and to-day 
Gibraltar wakened; hark, thy evening gun 
Startles the desert over Africa ! 



Thou art the rock of empire, set mid-seas 
Between the East and West, that God has 

built; 
Advance thy Roman borders where thou 

wilt. 
While run thy armies true with his decrees; 
Law, justice, liberty, — great gifts are 

these: 
Watch that they spread where English 

blood is spilt, 
Lest, mixed and sullied with his country's 

guilt, 
The soldier's life-stream flow, and Heaven 

displease ! 
Two swords there are: one naked, apt to 

smite, 
Thy blade of war; and, battle-storied, one 
Rejoices in the sheath, and hides from light. 
American I am; would wars were done ! 



WOODBERRY — GUMMERE 



595 



Now westward, look, my country bids 

good-uight, — 
Peace to the world from ports without a 

guu ! 

LOVE'S ROSARY 

Sweet names, the rosary of my evening 
^ prayer, 

Told on my lips like kisses of good-night 
To friends who go a little from my sight. 
And some through distant years shine clear 

and fair ! — 
So this dear burden that I daily bear 
Mighty God taketh, and doth loose me 

quite ; 
And soft I sink in slumbers pure and 

light 
With thoughts of human love and heavenly 

care ; 
But when I mark how into shadow slips 
My manhood's prime, and weep fast-passing 

friends, 
And heaven's riches making poor my lips, 
And think how in the dust love's labor 

ends, 



Then, where the cluster of my hearth-stone 

shone, 
"Bid me not live," I sigh, "till all be 

gone." 

SONG OF EROS, IN "AGATHON" 

When love in the faint heart trembles, 

And the eyes with tears are wet, 
Oh, tell me what resembles 

Thee, young Regret ? 
Violets with dewdrops drooping; 

Lilies o'erfuU of gold, 
Roses in June rains stooping, 

That weep for the cold, 
Are like thee, young Regret. 

Bloom, violets, lilies, and roses ! 

But what, young Desire, 
Like thee, when love discloses 

Thy heart of fire ? 
The wild swan unreturning. 

The eagle alone with the sun, 
The long-winged storm-gulls burning 

Seaward when day is done. 
Are like thee, young Desire. 



jprancijsf 2B>arton (Dummcre 



JOHN BRIGHT 



Few men of hero-mould 

The Quaker counts amid his ranks to-day; 

But, in the troublous times of old, 

Before commodity's loud gold 

Drowned with its clank the clash of steel, 

The Quaker held no devious way; 

For him to see was but to feel, 

To feel was but to say. 



All hail those men of yore ! 

Amid innumerable disasters true 

To that brave standard which they bore; 

Whether amid the maddened roar 

Of priest-led mobs, or scourged and flung 

To die in gaols, or where the few 

Sat waiting for the cloven tongue, 

But one straight path they knew. 



Yet peace breeds doubtful virtues. When 
the flame 



Of persecution flickered, fell, expired, 
So dimmed the old lustre; no hot shame 
The wavering conscience fired. 
So, when wild storms are past, and winds 

grow tame. 
And the foiled tempest holds his hand. 
The vessels cast safe anchor near the strand; 
And sweet it seems a gentle sea to ride. 
While lapping waters lave 
The weary, battered side : — 
" Ah, linger thus," the shipmen cry, " near 

land. 
Nor tempt again the buffets of the wave ! " 
They will not heed the voice 
That calls from far and chides their choice: 
He must not dally with the shore 
Who thinks on noble gain, 
But bend him stoutly to the oar, 
And seek the midmost main, 
And wrest their treasure from the clasp of 

toave and hurricane. 



Ho ! pilot of the roaring seas ! 
No summer sailor thou; 



59^ 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



It was no idle breeze 

That set those manly lines upon thy brow; 

For thou hast done what all to do are fain, 

Yet few, ah, few attain, — 

Hast never struck thy sail 

And fled before the gale 

Till it had spent its force, — 

But sawest clear upon the chart of life 

Thy straight-drawn track; and though the 

storm blew loud. 
And elemental strife 
In one mad whirl joined sea and cloud, 
Thou hast but lashed thy helm and held 

thy course. 
And for the manly heart and manly deed 
Thy country loves thee, — gives 
Honor unstinted as thy meed; 
And they that still can hold 
The Quaker name rejoice that one man 

lives 
Who fills the measure of their hero-mould. 



At glimpse of wrong, thy voice that knows 

not fear, 
As sword from scabbard still hath leapt, 

and fills 
With noblest echoes these wide halls of 

time. 



We too, when tempests shook our western 

clime, 
And all the air was rife with bodings grave, 
Have felt new hope to hear 
That voice of manly cheer. 
And mark the signal of a friendly hand 
From yon far strand 
Where thy bluff England dashes back the 



VI 

Brief be our word, yet strong. 

So we this greeting send. 

Stout English heart, across the severing sea, 

Whose chainless waters blend 

The breezes of two nations that are free ; 

Free, free for evermore ! 

And shore shall call to shore 

In sister freedom till the end of time; 

And still the thunder chime 

Of that vast sea shall chorus the same 

song. 
Ay, he who bends his ear 
To those great tones, shall hear 
Exultant voices, swelling high, proclaim 
That thou, undaunted heart, 
Hast played a hero's part. 
Joining with freedom's deathless song thy 

deathless name. 



JJenry Cuplcr ^^unncr 



THE WAY TO ARCADY 

Oh, what 's the way to A ready, 

To Arcady, to Arcady ; 
Oh, what 's the way to Arcady, 

Where all the leaves are merry ? 

Oh, what 's the way to Arcady ? 
The spring is rustling in the tree, — 
The tree the wind is blowing through, ■ 

It sets the blossoms flickering white. 
I knew not skies could burn so blue 

Nor any breezes blow so light. 
They blow' an old-time way for me, 
Across the world to Arcady. 

Oh, what 's the way to Arcady ? 
Sir Poet, with the rusty coat. 
Quit mocking of the song-bird's note. 
How have you heart for any tune. 
You with the wayworn russet shoon ? 



Your scrip, a-swinging by your side. 
Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide. 
I '11 brim it well with pieces red, 
If you will tell the way to tread. 

Oh, I am bound for Arcady, 
And if you but keep pace with me 
You tread, the way to Arcady. 

And where away lies Arcady, 

And how long yet may the journey be ? 

Ah, that (quoth he) 1 do not know: 
Across the clover and the snow — 
Across the frost, across the flowers — 
Through summer seconds and winter hours,, 
I 've trod the lody my whole life long. 

And know not now where it may be ; 
My guide is but the stir to song. 
That tells me I cannot go wrong. 

Or clear or dark the pathway be 

Upon the road to Arcady. 



HENRY CUYLER BUNNER 



597 



But how shall I do who cannot shig ? 

I was wont to sing, once on a time, — 
There is never an echo now to ring 

Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme. 

^T is strange you cannot sing (quoth he), — 
The folk all sing in Arcady. 

But how may he find Arcady 
Who hath nor youth nor melody ? 

What, know you not, old man (quoth he), — 
Your hair is white, your face is wise, — 
That Love must kiss that Mortal's eyes 

Who hopes to see fair Arcady ? 

]Vo gold can buy you entrance there ; 

But bfiggared Love may go all hare — 

No wisdom won with weariness ; 

But Love goes in with Folly's dress — 

No fame that wit could ever win ■ 

But only Love may lead Love in 
To Arcady, to Arcady. 

Ah, woe is me, through all my days 

Wisdom and wealth I both have got. 
And fame and name, and great men's 
praise ; 

But Love, ah Love ! I have it not. 
There was a time, when life was new — 

But far away, and half forgot — 
I only know her eyes were blue ; 

But Love — I fear I knew it not. 
We did not wed, for lack of gold. 
And she is dead, and I am old. 
All tilings have come since then to me, 
Save Love, ah Love ! and Arcady. 

Ah, then I fear we part (quoth he), — 
My way 's for Love and Arcady, 

But you, you fare alone, like me; 

The gray is likewise in your hair. 

What love have you to lead you there, 
To Arcady, to Arcady ? 

Ah, no, not lonely do I fare ; 

My true companion 's Memory. 
With Love he fills the Spring-time air ; 

With Love he clothes the Winter tree. 
Oh, past this poor horizon's bound 

My song goes straight to one who stands, — 
Her face all gladdening at the sound, — 

To lead me to the Spring-green lands, 
To wander luith enlacing hands. 



The songs within my breast that stir 
Are all of her, are all of her. 
My maid is dead long years (quoth he), ■ 
She waits for me in Arcady. 

Oh, yon 's the way to Arcady, 

To Arcady, to Arcady j 
Oh, yon 's the way to Arcady, 

Where all the leaves are merry. 



SHE WAS A BEAUTY 

She was a beauty in the days 
When Madison was President, 

And quite coquettish in her ways, — 
On conquests of the heart intent. 

Grandpapa, on his right knee bent, 
Wooed her in stiff, old-fashioned phrase, — 
She was a beauty in the days 

When Madison was President. 

And when your roses where hers went 
Shall go, my Rose, who date from Hayes, 

I hope you '11 wear her sweet content 
Of whom tradition lightly says: 
She was a beauty in the days 

When Madison was President. 



A PITCHER OF MIGNONETTE 

A PITCHER of mignonette 

In a tenement's highest casement, — 
Queer sort of flower-pot — yet 
That pitcher of mignonette 
Is a garden in heaven set. 

To the little sick child in the basement — 
The pitcher of mignonette. 

In the tenement's highest casement. 



DEAF 

As to a bird's song she were listening. 
Her beautiful head is ever side wise bent; 
Her questioning eyes lift up their depths 

intent — 
She, who will never hear the wild-birds sing. 
My words within her ears' cold chambers 

ring 
Faint, with the city's murmurous sub-tones 

blent; 



598 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Though with such sounds as suppliants 

may have sent 
To high-throned goddesses, my speech 

takes wing. 
Not for the side-poised head's appealing 

grace 
I gaze, nor hair where fire in shadow lies — 
For her this world's unhallowed noises 

base 
Melt into silence ; not our groans, our cries, 
Our curses, reach that high-removed place 
Where dwells her spirit, innocently wise. 



LES MORTS VONT VITE 

Les morts vont vite ! Ay, for a little space 
We miss and mourn them fallen from their 
place; 
To take our portion in their rest are fain; 
But by-and-by, having wept, press on 
again. 
Perchance to win their laurels in the race. 

What man would find the old in the new 

love's face ? 
Seek on the fresher lips the old kisses' 
trace ? 
For withered roses newer blooms dis- 
dain ? 

Les morts vont vite ! 

But when disease brings thee in piteous 

case. 
Thou shalt thy dead recall,- and thy ill 
grace 
To them for whom remembrance plead 

in vain. 
Then, shuddering, think, while thy bed- 
fellow Pain 
Clasps thee with arms that cling like 
Death's embrace: 

Les morts vont vite ! 



THE APPEAL TO HAROLD 

Haro ! Haro ! 

Judge now betwixt this woman and me, 

Haro ! 
She leaves me bond, who found me free. 
Of love and hope she hath drained me 

dry — 
Yea, barren as a drought-struck sky; 
She hath not left me tears for weeping, 



Nor will my eyelids close in sleeping. 
I have gathered all my life's-blood up — 

Haro ! 
She hath drunk and thrown aside the 
cup. 

Shall she not give me back my days ? 

Haro ! 
I made them perfect for her praise. 
There was no flower in all the brake 
I found not fairer for her sake ; 
There was no sweet thought I did not 

fashion 
For aid and servant to my passion. 
Labor and learning worthless were, 

Haro ! 
Save that I made them gifts for her. 

Shall she not give me back my nights ? 

Haro ! 
Give me sweet sleep for brief delights ? 
Lo, in the night's wan mid I lie. 
And ghosts of hours that are dead go by, — 
Hours of a love that died unshriven; 
Of a love in change for my manhood given. 
She caressed and slew my soul's white 
truth, 

Haro ! 
Shall she not give me back my youth ? 

Haro ! Haro ! 

Tell thou me not of a greater judge, 
Haro ! 

It is He who hath my sin in grudge. 

Yea, from God I appeal to thee; 

God hath not part or place for me. 

Thou who hast sinned, judge thou my 
sinning: 

I have staked my life for a woman's win- 
ning; _ 

She hath stripped me of all save remem- 
bering — 
Haro ! 

Right thou me, right thou me, Harold the 
Bang ! 



ON READING A POET'S FIRST 
BOOK 

This is a breath of summer wind 

That comes — we know not how — that 
goes 

As softly, — leaving us behind. 

Pleased with a smell of vine and rose. 



HENRY CUYLER BUNNER 



599 



Poet, shall this be all thy word ? 


And if our grandchild query whence it 


Blow on us with a bolder breeze, 


came. 


Until we rise, as having heard 


We '11 say: " A thought of Brougham." — 


The sob, the song of far-off seas. 


And that is Fame ! 


Blow in thy shell until thou draw. 




From inner whorls where still they sleep, 


TO A JUNE BREEZE 


The notes unguessed of love and awe, 


BEING A lover's MESSAGE TO HIS 


And all thy song grow full and deep. 


MISTRESS A-SUMMERING 


Feeble may be the scanty phrase, — 


Wind of the City Streets, 


Thy dream a dream tongue never spake, — 


Impatient to be free. 


Yet shall thy note, through doubtful days. 


In this dull time of heats 


Swell stronger for Endeavor's sake. » 


My love takes wings to flee: 




Leave thou this idle Town 


As Jacob, wrestling through the night. 


And hunt Her down. 


Felt all his muscles strengthen fast 




With wakening strength, and met the light 


Wherever She may stay, 


Blessed and strong, though overcast. 


By Sea or Mountain-side, 




Make thou thy airy Way, 




If there She bide ; 


FEMININE 


If sea-spray kiss Her face ; 


4. 


Or hills find grace. 


She might have known it in the earlier 




Spring, — 


And, having found Her out. 


That all my heart with vague desire was 


On Sands or under Trees, 


stirred ; 


Say that I wait in doubt. 


And, ere the Summer winds had taken 


To melt with love, or freeze: 


wing, 


Nor yet hath Summer stirred. 


I told her; but she smiled and said no 


But waits Her word. 


word. 






Say that, if She so please. 


The Autumn's eager hand his red gold 


These ways so dusty-dry, 


grasped, 


With their poor song-shunned Trees, 


And she was silent; till from skies grown 


Shall ring with Melody; 


drear 


And turn Love's Wilderness, 


Fell soft one fine, first snow-flake, and she 


If She say Yes. 


clasped 




My neck and cried, " Love, we have lost 


But if my Fate fall so • 


a year ! " 


That She will naught of me. 




Tell Her the Winter's snow 


J. B. 


Shall strip the greenest tree: 


One only Frost I fear — 


JUNE 7, i88o 


She makes my year. 


The Actor 's dead, and memory alone 


Go, then, sweet Wind, and pray 


Recalls the genial magic of his tone; 


That She remember 


Marble nor canvas nor the printed page 


She makes my March or May, 


Shall tell his genius to another age: 


June or December — 


A memory, doomed to dwindle less and 




less. 


If Town grow green with trees, 


His world-wide fame shrinks to this little- 


If the new Blossoms freeze. 


ness. 


Hers it is but to say, — 


Yet if, a half a century from to-day, 


Pray Her that so She please — 


A tender smile about our old lips play. 


Pray Her remember ! 



6oo 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



THE CHAPERON 


They bow as my young Midas here 




Will never learn to bow 


I TAKE my chaperon to the play — 


(The dancing-masters do not teach 


She thinks she 's taking me. 


That gracious reverence now) ; 


And the gilded youth who owns the box, 


With voices quavering just a bit, 


A proud young man is he ; 


They play their old parts through, 


But how would his young heart be hurt 


They talk of folk who used to 


If he could only know 


woo. 


That not for his sweet sake I go 


Of hearts that broke in 'fifty-two — 


Nor yet to see the trifling show; 


Now none the worse for it. 


But to see my chaperon flirt. 






And as those aged crickets chirp 


Her eyes beneath her snowy hair 


I watch my chaperon's face, 


They sparkle young as mine; 


And see the dear old features take 


There 's scarce a wrinkle in her hand 


A new and tender grace ; 


So delicate and fine. 


And in her happy eyes I see 


And when my chaperon is seen, 


Her youth awakening bright, 


They come from everywhere — 


With all its hope, desire, delight — 


The dear old boys with silvery hair, 


Ah, me ! I wish that I were 


With old-time grace and old-time air. 


quite 


To greet their old-time queen. 


As young — as young as she ! 



JBiitmr larrcmorre 



MADAM HICKORY 

Fit theme for song, the sylvan maid 

Who, if she knew not fauns or satyrs, 
Had conjured oft in mossy shade 

Visions of savage pale-face haters; 
I trow she dined on pork and maize 

In cabin, single-roomed and sooted. 
Quite innocent of frills and stays. 

Warm-hearted and bare-footed. 

Her beauty surely brought her note, — 

Its praises fed her soul like manna; 
Gossip o'er furtive tales did gloat. 

Sacred to Venus not Diana; 
But when the valiant lover came 

He crushed the scandal pests like vermin; 
A terror hedged the hero's name 

And she was white as ermine. 

Thenceforth, a matron fair and fat, 

She shared the doting warrior's station. 
Thais with Alexander sat 

And heard the plaudits of a nation; 
Though envious souls with poisoned leer 

Offset her new life by the other. 
The hero held her yet more dear, 

Stainless as Mary Mother. 



Weary of fortune's smile and frown 

She died without the White House por- 
tal. 
But never wife wore richer crown, 

A sacred troth and love immortal: 
That love had made a queen of her 

Whom haughty dames turned prudish 
backs on, 
And History smiles but has no slur 

For Mistress Andrew Jackson. 



BLOSSOM TIME 

Spring came with tiny lances thrusting, 
And earth was clad in peeping green; 

In russet bark, the twigs incrusting, 
Tenderest blossom-points were seen; 

A robin courier proclaimed good cheer: 

Summer will soon arrive, for I am here. 

And now from cherry boughs in flower 
The languid breeze arousing shakes, 

With every honeyed breath, a shower 
Of feather snow in drifting flakes; 

And apple trees in bloom, like ricks of 
white. 

Are veiled with smoky, amethystine light. 



WILBUR LARREMORE — ELISABETH CAVAZZA PULLEN 6oi 



Ah, little soul, on thy first spring 
Unclosing merry, puzzled eyes, 

Would that a father's thought could bring 
Prophetic counsel more than wise 

To guide thee as a father's love would 
yearn, — 

Thou hast so much to suffer and to learu ! 



I cannot live thy life for thee, 

My precepts would be dull and trite. 

Barren as last year's leaves to me 
Beneath the apple blossoms white; 

But in thy new horizon's vaster range 

Our hearts close knit shall feel no chilling 
change. 



€IijSfaBctf) (Catja^^a) Mullen 



HER SHADOW 

Still as I move thou movest, 

Sister of mine, silent and left of the light. 
Why dost thou follow my way 
All through the hours of the day ? 

Where dost thou wait all the night 

For the coming of light ? 

Is it then that thou lovest 

Me, that forever must stand between thee 
and the sun ? 
For whose sake thy life is made 
The dim, cold life of a shade — 

A life that, until it be done, 

Is unkissed of the sun. 

Hearken, I whisper a word — 
Thy lips too part, yet breathless are they, 
without fire; 

My hands stretch forth, and they clasp 

Roses and lilies — 
Gray ghosts of bloom, and desire 
Ashes for fire ! 

Look how my veil is stirred 
By the beating beneath it — thine too 
moves, ah, poor shade ! 

What of warm life canst thou know ? 

When I die where wilt thou go — 
Wilt thou be lonely, afraid ? 
I, too, a shade ! 



ALICIA'S BONNET 

Last night Alicia wore a Tuscan bonnet. 
And many humming-birds were fastened 
on it. 

I sat beside Alicia at the play; 
Her violet eyes with tender tears were wet 



(The diamonds in her ears less bright than 
they) 
For pity of the woes of Juliet: 
Alicia's sighs a poet might have set 

To delicate music in a dainty sonnet. 

Last night Alicia wore a Tuscan bonnet. 
And many humming-birds were fastened 
on it. 

And yet to me her graceful ready words 
Sounded like tinkling silver bells that 
jangled. 
For on her golden hair the humming- 
birds 
Were fixed as if within a sunbeam 

tangled. 
Their quick life quenched, their tiny 
bodies mangled. 
Poor pretty birds upon Alicia's bonnet. 

Last night Alicia wore a Tuscan bonnet, 
And many humming-birds were fastened 
on it. 

Caught in a net of delicate creamy crepe, 
The dainty captives lay there dead to- 
gether ; 
No dart of slender bill, no fragile shape 
Fluttering, no stir of any radiant feather: 
Alicia looked so calm, I wondered 
whether 
She cared if birds were killed to trim her 
bonnet. 

Last night Alicia wore a Tuscan bonnet. 
And many humming-birds were fastened 
on it. 

If rubies and if sapphires have a spirit, 
Though deep they lie below the weight 
of earth, 



6o2 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



If emeralds can a conscious life inherit 
And beryls rise again to winged birth — 
Being changed to birds bat not to lesser 
worth -7- 

Alicia's golden head had such upon it. 

Last night Alicia wore a Tuscan bonnet, 
And many humming-birds were fastened 
on it. 

Perhaps I dreamed — the house was very 
still — 
But on a sudden the Academy 
Of Music seemed a forest of Brazil, 
Each pillar that supports the balcony 
Took form and stature of a tropic tree 
With scarlet odorous flowers blooming on 
it. 

Last night Alicia wore a Tuscan bonnet, 
And many humming-birds were fastened 
on it. 

A fragrance of delicious drowsy death 

Was in the air ; the lithe lianas clung 
About the mighty tree, and birds beneath 
More swift than arrows flashed and flew 

among 
The perfumed poisonous blossoms as they 
swung. 
The heavy-honeyed flowers that hung upon 
it. 

Last night Alicia wore a Tuscan bonnet. 
And many humming-birds were fastened 
on it. 

Like rain-drops when the sun breaks up the 
shower. 
Or weavers' shuttles carrying golden 
thread, 
Or flying petals of a wind-blown flower, 
Myriads of humming-birds flew over- 
head — 
Purple and gold and green and blue and 
red — 
Above each scarlet cup, or poised upon it. 

Last night Alicia wore a Tuscan bonnet. 
And many humming-birds were fastened 
on it. 

What rapid flight ! Each one a winged 
flame, 
Burning with brilliant joy of life and all 



Delight of motion; to and fro they came, 
An endless dance, a fairy festival ; 
Then suddenly I saw them pause and 
fall, 

Slain only to adorn Alicia's bonnet. 

Last night Alicia wore a Tuscan bonnet, 
And many humming-birds were fastened on 
it. 

My mind came back from the Brazilian 
land; 
For, as a snowflake falls to earth beneath, 
Alicia's hand fell lightly on my hand ; 
And yet I fancied that a stain of death, 
Like that which doomed the lady of 
Macbeth, 
Was on h6r hand: could I perhaps have 
won it ? 

Last night Alicia wore a Tuscan bonnet. 
And many humming-birds were fastened on 
it. 



LOVE AND POVERTY 

One sat within a hung and lighted room — 
A little shape, with face between his wings. 
And in the light made of all golden things 
He seemed a warm and living rose abloom ; 
And one without sobbed in the night and 

gloom. 
And all about him was a pilgrim's weed. 
His little hands and cold he held for 

meed 
Of his long waiting, sad as by a tomb: 
He entered at the door, the other flew 
Out at the casement — and with sudden 

day 
The lamps burned faint, and he who came 

most new 
Was fair, and he who went was wan and 

gray. 
" For I am Love who came," and " Be 

content," 
Sang this one, '* It was Poverty who went ! '' 



DERELICT 

She wanders up and down the main 
Without a master, nowhere bound; 
The currents turn her round and round, 

Her track is like a tangled skein; 



ELISABETH PULLEN — DANIEL LEWIS DAWSON 



603 



And never helmsman by his chart 
So strange a way as hers may steer 

To enter port or to depart 
For any harbor far or near. 

The waters clamor at her sides, 

The winds cry through her C' 
torn, 

The last sail hangs, to tatters worn; 
Upon the waves the vessel rides 
This way or that, as winds may shift. 

In ghastly dance when airs blow balm, 

Or held in a lethargic calm, 
Or fury-hunted, wild, adrift. 

When south winds blow, does she recall 

Spices and golden fruits in store ? 

Or north winds — nets off Labrador 
And icebergs' iridescent wall ? 
Or east — the isles of Indian seas ? 

Or west — new ports and sails unfurled ? 

Her voyages all around the world 
To mock her with old memories ? 

For her no light-house sheds a ray 
Of crimson warning from its tower; 
No watchers wait in hope the hour 

To greet her coming up the bay; 

No trumpet speaks her, hearty, hoarse — 
Or if a captain hail at first. 
He sees her for a thing accursed, 

And turns his own ship from her course. 

Alone, in desperate liberty 

She forges on; and how she fares 
No man alive inquires, or cares 

Though she were sunk beneath the sea. 



Her helm obeys no firm control. 

She drifts — a prey for storms to take, 
For sands to clutch, for rocks to break — 

A ship condemned, like a lost soul. 



THE SEA-WEED 

The flying sea-bird mocked the floating 

dulse : 
"Poor wandering water- weed, where dost 

thou go, 
Astray upon the ocean's restless pulse ? " 
It said : " I do not know. 

" At a cliff's foot I clung and was content. 
Swayed to and fro by warm and shallow 

waves; 
Along the coast the storm- wind raging went. 
And tore me from my caves. 

" I am the bitter herbage of that plain 
Where no flocks pasture, and no man shall 

have 
Homestead, nor any tenure there may gain 
But only for a grave. 

" A worthless weed, a drifting, broken weed, 
What can I do in all this boundless sea ? 
No creature of the universe has need 
Or any thought of me." 

Hither and yonder, as the winds might 

blow. 
The sea-weed floated. Then a refluent tide 
Swept it along to meet a galleon's prow — 
" Land ho ! " Columbus cried. 



2Danid %t\xyi^ E>atD^on 



THE SEEKER IN THE MARSHES 

Thanksgiving to the gods ! 

Shaken and shivering in the autumn 
rains. 
With clay feet clinging to the weary 
sods, 
I wait below the clouds, amid the plains. 
As though I stood in some remote, strange 
clime. 
Waiting to kneel upon the tomb of 
time. 



The harvest swaths are gathered in the 
garth, 
The aftermath is floating in the fields. 
The house-carl bides beside the roaring 
hearth. 
And clustered cattle batten in the shields. 
Thank ye the gods, O dwellers in the 

land, 
For home and hearth and ever -giving 
hand. 
Stretch hands to pray and feed and sleep 
and die, • 



6o4 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



And then be gathered to your kindred gods, 
Low in dank barrows ever more to lie, 

So long as autumn over wood-ways plods. 

Forgetting the green earth as ye forgot 
Its glory in the day when it was born 

To you, on some fair tide in grove and 
grot. 
As though new-made upon a glimmering 



And it shall so be meted unto you 

As ye did mete when all things were to do. 

The wild rains cling around me in the night 

Closer than woman in the sunny days, 
And through these shaken veins a weird 
delight 

Of loneliness and storm and sodden ways 
And desolation, made most populous. 
Builds up the roof-trees of the gloomy 

house 
Of grief to hide and help my lonely path, 
A sateless seeker for the aftermath. 

Thanksgiving to the gods ! 
No hidden grapes are leaning to the sods, 
No purple apple glances through green 
leaves, 
Nor any fruit or flower is in the rains. 
Nor any corn to garner in long sheaves. 
And hard the toil is on these scanty 
plains. 
Howbeit I thank the ever-giving ones, 
Who dwell in high Olympus near the 
stars. 
They have not walked in ever-burning suns. 
Nor has the hard earth hurt their feet 
with scars. 



Never the soft rains beat them, nor the 

snow, 
Nor the sharp winds that we marsh-stalkers 

know. 
In the sad halls of heaven they sleep the 

sleep, 
Yea, and no morn breaks through their 

slumber deep. 

These things they cast me forth at even- 
tide to bear 
With curving sickle over sod and sand; 
And no wild tempest drowns me to despair, 

No terrors fear me in a barren land. 
Perchance somewhere, across the hollow 
hill. 
Or in the thickets in these dreary meads. 
Great grapes, uncut, are on the limp vine 
still, 
And waving corn still wears its summer 
weeds, 
Unseen, ungathered in the earlier tide. 
When larger summer o'er the earth did 
glide. 
Who knows ? Belike from this same sterile 

path 
My harvest hand, heaped with an after- 
math, 
Shall cast the garner forth before their feet, 
Shapely and shaven clean and very, sweet. 

Thanksgiving to the gods ! 

Wet with the falling rain. 
My face and sides are beaten as with rods, 

And soft and sodden is the endless 
plain — 

How long — bow long do I endure in vain? 



%t\m^ ftmh €ooktt 



THE LAST FIGHT 

That night I think that no one slept; 

No bells were struck, no whistle blew, 
And when the watch was changed I crept 

From man to man of all the crew 
With whispered orders. Though we swept 

Through roaring seas, we hushed the 
clock, 

And muffled every clanking block. 

So when one fool, unheeding, cried 
Some petty order, straight I ran, 



And threw him sprawling o'er the side. 
All life is but a narrow span: 

It little matters that one bide 
A moment longer here, for all 
Fare the same road, whate'er befall. 

But vain my care ; for when the day 
Broke gray and wet, we saw the foe 

But half a stormy league away. 

By noon we saw his black bows throw 

Five fathoms high a wall of spray; 
A little more, we heard the drum. 
And knew that our last hour had come. 



LEWIS FRANK TOOKER 



605 



All day our crew had lined the side 
With grim, set faces, muttering; 

And once a boy (the first that died) 
One of our wild songs tried to sing: 

But when their first shot missed us wide, 
A dozen sprang above our rail, 
Shook fists, and roared a cursing hail. 

Thereon, all hot for war, they bound 

Their heads with coot, wet bands, and 
drew 
Their belts close, and their keen blades 
ground; 
Then, at the next gun's puff of blue, 
We set the grog-cup on its round. 

And pledged for life or pledged for 

death 
Our last sigh of expiring breath. 

Laughing, our brown young singer fell 
As their next shot crashed through our 
rail; 
Then 'twixt us flashed the fire of hell, 

That shattered spar and riddled sail. 
What ill we wrought we could not tell; 
But blood-red all their scuppers dripped 
When their black hull to starboard 
dipped. 

Nine times I saw our helmsman fall. 
And nine times sent new men, who took 

The whirling wheel as at death's call; 
But when I saw the last one look 

From sky to deck, then, reeling, crawl 
Under the shattered rail to die, 
I knew where I should surely lie. 

I could not send more men to stand 
And turn in idleness the wheel 

Until they took death's beckoning hand. 
While others, meeting steel with steel, 

Flamed out their lives — an eager band. 
Cheers on their lips, and in their eyes 
The goal-rapt look of high emprise. 

So to the wheel I went. Like bees 
I heard the shot go darting by; 

There came a trembling in my knees. 
And black spots whirled about the sky. 

I thought of things beyond the seas — 
The little town where I was born. 
And swallows twittering in the morn. 

A wounded creature drew him where 
I grasped the wheel, and begged to steer. 



It mattered not how he might fare 
The little time he had for fear; 

So if I left this to his care 

He too might serve us yet, he said. 
He died there while I shook my head. 

I would not fall so like a dog, 

My helpless back turned to the foe; 

So when his great hulk, like a log. 
Came surging past our quarter, lo ! 

With helm hard down, straight through the 
fog 
Of battle smoke, and luffing wide, 
I sent our sharp bow through his side. 

The willing waves came rushing in 
The ragged entrance that we gave; 

Like snakes I heard their green coils spin 
Up, up, around our floating grave; 

But dauntless still, amid a din 

Of clashing steel and battle-shout, 
We rushed to drive their boarders out. 

Around me in a closing ring 

My grim- faced foemen darkly drew; 
Then, sweeter than the lark in spring. 

Loud rang our blades; the red sparks 
flew. 
Twice, thrice, I felt the sudden sting 

Of some keen stroke ; then, swinging fair, 

My own clave more than empty air. 

The fight went raging past me when 
My good blade cleared a silent place; 

Then in a ring of fallen men 

I paused to breathe a little space. 

Elsewhere the deck roared like a glen 
When mountain torrents meet; the fray 
A moment then seemed far away. 

The barren sea swept to the sky; 

The empty sky dipped to the sea; 
Such utter waste could scarcely lie 

Beyond death's starved periphery. 
Only one living thing went by : 

Far overhead an ominous bird 

Rode down the gale with wings unstirred, 

Windward I saw the billows swing 
Dark crests to beckon others on 

To see our end; then, hurrying 

To reach ns ere we should be gone, 

They came, like tigers mad to fling 
Their jostling bodies on our ships, 
And snarl at us with foaming lips. 



6o6 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



There was no time to spare: a wave 
E'en then broke growling at my feet; 

One last look to the sky I gave, 

Then sprang my eager foes to meet. 

Loud rang the fray above our grave — 
I felt the vessel downward reel 
As my last thrust met thrusting steel. 

I heard a roaring in my ears; 

A green wall pressed against my eyes; 
Down, down I passed; the vanished years 

I saw in mimicry arise. 
Yet even then I felt no fears. 

And with my last expiring breath 

My past rose up and mocked at death. 



SLEEP 

In a tangled, scented hollow, 
On a bed of crimson roses, 
Stilly now the wind reposes; 
Hardly can the breezes borrow 
Breath to stir the night-swept river. 
Motionless the water-sedges. 
And within the dusky hedges 
Sounds no leaf's impatient shiver. 
Sleep has come, that rare rest-giver. 

Light and song have flown away 
With the sun and twilight swallow; 
Scarcely will the unknown morrow 
Bring again so sweet a day. 
Song was born of Joy and Thought; 
Light, of Love and her caress. 
Nothing 's left me but a tress; 



Death and Sleep the rest have wrought — 
Death and Sleep, who came unsought. 



HIS QUEST 

What seek'st thou at this madman's pace ? 
" I seek my love's new dwelling place: 
Her house is dark, her doors are wide. 
There bat and owl and beetle bide. 
And there, breast-high, the rank weeds 

grow. 
And drowsy poppies nod and blow. 
So mount I swift to ride me through 
The world to find my love anew. 
I have no token of the way; 
I haste by night, I press by day. 
Through busy cities I am borne, 
On lonely heights I watch the morn 
Climb up the east, and see the light 
Of waning moon gleam thwart my flight. 
Sometimes a light before me flees; 
I follow it, till stormy seas 
Break wide before, then all is dark. 
Sometimes on plains, wide, still, and 

stark, 
I hear a voice; I seek the sound, 
And ride into a hush profound. 
To find her dwelling I will ride 
Worlds through and through, whate'er 

betide." 

To find her dwelling rode he forth, 
In vain rode south, in vain rode north ; 
In vain in mountain, plain, and mart 
He searched, but never searched his hearfcc 



3firmi^tcati Cfjurcljili <iBoi:tion 



KREE 

My boy Kree ? 
He played wid you when you was a chile ? 

You an' he 
Growed up tergether ? Wait ! Lemme see ! 
Closer ! so I can look in yer face ! — 

Mars' George's smile ! 

Lord love you, Marster ! 
Dar 'neaf dat cypress is whar Kree lays. 

Sunburnt an' grown ! 
Mars' George, I shudden ha' knowed you, 
son, 



'Count o' de beard dat yer face has on, 
But for dat ole-time smile o' your'n — 
" An' Kree ? " you say. 
Had n't you heerd, Marster, 
He 'ceasded de year dat you went away ? 

Kree an' you ! 
How de ole times comes back oust mo' — 
Moonlight fishin's, an' hyars in de sno'; 
Squirrels an' jaybirds up overhead. 
In de oak-trees dat de sun shined 
through ! — 

Look at me, Marster ! 
Here is me livin'; an' Kree, he 's dead. 



ARMISTEAD CHURCHILL GORDON 



607 



'Pears ter me strange 
Now, when I thinks on 'em, dose ole years: 
Mars' George, sometimes de b'ilin' tears 

Fills up my eyes, 
'Count o' de mizery now, an' de change — 

De sun dims, Marster, 
Ter an ole man, when his one boy dies. 

Did you say « How ? " 
Out in de dug-out, one moonshine night, 

Fishin' wid your baby brother — he 
Wid de curls o' yaller, like streaks o' light, 
An' de dancin' big blue eyes. Dead, now — 

Kree died for him; 

An' yearnin' for I^ee, 

De Lord tuk him, Marster: 
De green grass kivers 'em bofe f'om sight. 

Heerd o' de tale ? 
Did n' know Kree was de one dat drowned 
Sav'ii' Mars' Charley? Well, 't were 

he. 
De boy waxed weaker, his face mo' 
pale, 
Arter de corpse o' poor Kree were found. 
Two months later he went, you 

see: 
God bless you, Marster ! 
Nine years has rolled over bofe onder 
ground. 

Worn out an' gray. 
Here I sets waitin', Mars' George, alone. 

All on 'em's gone — 
Marster an' Mistis, an' Charley an' he. 
You an' me only is lef. Some day. 
When you 's gone back ter yer ship on de 
sea, 
I '11 hear him say, 
Jes' as he used ter, a-fishin', ter me: 

" Daddy, come over ! " An' passin' away, 
Dat side de river, again I '11 be 
Wid my boy Kree. 



ROSES OF MEMORY 

A rose's crimson stain, 

A rose's stainless white. 
Fitly become the immortal slain 
Who fell in the great fight. 

When Armistead died amid his foes, 

Girt by the rebel cheer, 
God plucked a soul like a white rose 
In June time o' the year. 



The blood in Pickett's heart 

Was of a ruddier hue 
Than the reddest bloom whose petals part 
To welcome heaven's dew. 

I think the fairest flowers that blow 
Should greet the life-stream shed 
In that historic long ago 
By this historic dead. 

The immemorial years 

Such valor never knew 
As poured a flood of crimson blood 
At Gettysburg with you. 

Living and dead, in faith the same, 

I see you on that height, 
Crowned with the rosy wreath of fame 
Won in the fatal fight. 

Not these had made afraid 

King Arthur's mystic sword — 
Not Bayard's most chivalric blade. 
Nor Gideon's, for the Lord. 

Yours was the strain of high emprise, 

Yours the unfaltering faith, — 
The honor lofty as the skies. 
The duty strong as death. 

When Douglas flung the heart 

Of Bruce amid his foes, 
And said: "He leads. We do not part: 
I follow where he goes," 

No mightier impulse stirred his soul 

Than that which up yon height 
Moved you with Pickett toward the 
goal 
Of freedom in that fight. 

The fair goal was not won. 

The famous fight was lost; 
But never shone the all-seeing sun 
On more heroic host. 

Your deeds of mightj'^ prowess shame 

All deeds of derring-do 
With which Time's bloody pages flame. 
— Hail and farewell to you ! 

Unto the dead farewell ! 

They are hid in the dark and cold; 
And the broken shaft and the roses tell 
What is left of the tale untold. 

They are deaf to the martial music's call 

Till a judgment dawn shall break. 
When the trumpet of Truth shall pro- 
claim to all: 
" They perished for my sake ! " 



6o8 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Let them be quiet here 

Where birds and blossoms be; — 
And hail to you, who bring the tear 
And the rose of memory 

To water and deck each lowly grave 

Of those who in God's sight 
With loyal hearts their hearts' blood 
gave 
For the eternal right ! 



Alike for low and high 

The roses white and red: 
For valor and honor cannot die, 
And they were of these dead. 
The private in his jacket of gray 
And the general with his star 
The Lord God knighted alike that 
day, 
In the red front of War. 



(iEtitoarti ^anforb ^attin 



A GIRL OF POMPEII 

A PUBLIC haunt they found her in: 
She lay asleep, a lovely child; 
The only thing left undefiled 

Where all things else bore taint of sin. 

Her charming contours fixed in clay 

The universal law suspend, 

And turn Time's chariot back, and 
blend 
A thousand years with yesterday. 

A sinless touch, austere yet warm, 

Around her girlish figure pressed, 
Caught the sweet imprint of her breast, 

And held her, surely clasped, from harm. 

Truer than work of sculptor's art 

Comes this dear maid of long ago, 
Sheltered from woeful chance, to show 

A spirit's lovely counterpart. 

And bid mistrustful men be sure 

That form shall fate of flesh escape, 
And, quit of earth's corruptions, shape 

Itself, imperishably pure. 

A LITTLE BROTHER OF THE 
RICH 

To put new shingles on old roofs; 

To give old women wadded skirts; 
To treat premonitory coughs 

With seasonable flannel shirts; 
To soothe the stings of poverty 

And keep the jackal from the door, — 
These are the works that occupy 

The Little Sister of the Poor. 

She carries, everywhere she goes. 

Kind words and chickens, jams and coals; 



Poultices for corporeal woes. 

And sympathy for downcast souls: 

Her currant jelly, her quinine. 
The lips of fever move to bless; 

She makes the humble sick-room shine 
With unaccustomed tidiness. 

A heart of hers the instant twin 

And vivid counterpart is mine; 
I also serve my fellow-men, 

Though in a somewhat different line. 
The Poor, and their concerns, she has 

Monopolized, because of which 
It falls to me to labor as 

A Little Brother of the Rich. 

For their sake at no sacrifice 

Does my devoted spirit quail; 
I give their horses exercise; 

As ballast on their yachts I sail. 
Upon their tallyhos I ride 

And brave the chances of a storm; 
I even use my own inside 

To keep their wines and victuals warm. 

Those whom we strive to benefit 

Dear to our hearts soon grow to be; 
I love my Rich, and I admit 

That they are very good to me. 
Succor the Poor, my sisters, — ■ I, 
' While heaven shall still vouchsafe m^ 

health, 
Will strive to share and mollify 
The trials of abounding wealth. 



EGOTISM 

Without him still this whirling earth 
Might spin its course around the sun. 

And death still dog the heels of birth, 
And life be lived, and duty done. 



E. S. MARTIN — LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE 



609 



Without him let the rapt earth dree 
What doom its twin rotations earn; 

Whither or whence, are naught to me, 
Save as his being they concern. 

Comets may crash, or inner fire 
Burn out and leave an arid crust, 



Or earth may lose Cohesion's tire, 
And melt to planetary dust. 

It 's naught to me if he 's not here, 
I '11 not lament, nor even sigh ; 

I shall not feel the jar, nor fear, 
For I am he, and he is I. 



%i^tttt H^ootJtDortl) "dce^t 



LYDIA 

Break forth, break forth, O Sudbury town, 

And bid your yards be gay 
Up all your gusty streets and down. 

For Lydia comes to-day ! 

I hear it on the wharves below; 

And if I buy or sell, 
The good folk as they churchward go 

Have only this to tell. 

My mother, just for love of her, 

Unlocks her carved drawers; 
And sprigs of withered lavender 

Drop down upon the floors. 

For Lydia's bed must have the sheet 

Spun out of linen sheer. 
And Lydia's room be passing sweet 

With odors of last year. 

The violet flags are out once more 

In lanes salt with the sea; 
The thorn- bush at Saint Martin's door 

Grows white for such as she. 

So, Sudbury, bid your gardens blow, 

For Lydia comes to-day; 
Of all the words that I do know, 

I have but this to say. 



ANNE 

SUDBURY MEETING-HOUSE, 1 653 

Her eyes be like the violets, 

Ablow in Sudbury lane; 
When she doth smile, her face is sweet 

As blossoms after rain; 
With grief T think of my gray hairs. 

And wish me young again. 



In comes she through the dark old door 

Upon this Sabbath day ; 
And she doth bring the tender wind 

That sings in bush and tree; 
And hints of all the apple boughs 

That kissed her by the way. 

Our parson stands up straight and tall, 

For our dear souls to pray. 
And of the place where sinners go 

Some grewsome things doth say: 
Now, she is highest Heaven to me; 

So Hell is far away. 

Most stifP and still the good folk sit 
To hear the sermon through ; 

But if our God be such a God, 
And if these things be true, 

Why did He make her then so fair, 
And both her eyes so blue ? 

A flickering light, the sun creeps in. 

And finds her sitting there ; 
And touches soft her lilac gown. 

And soft her yellow hair; 
I look across to that old pew, 

And have both praise and prayer. 

Oh, violets in Sudbury lane. 

Amid the grasses green. 
This maid who stirs ye with her feet 

Is far more fair, I ween ! 
I wonder how my forty years 

Look by her sweet sixteen ! 



DAFFODILS 

Fathered by March, the daffodils are 
here. 

First, all the air grew keen with yester- 
day, 



6io 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



And once a thrush from out some hollow 
gray _ _ 

On a field's edge, where whitening stalks 
made cheer, 

Fluted the last unto the budding year; 

Now that the wind lets loose from orchard 
spray 

Plum bloom and peach bloom down the 
dripping way. 

Their punctual gold through the wet 
blades they rear. 

Oh, fleet and sweet ! A light to all that 
pass 

Below, in the cramped yard, close to the 
street, 

Long-stemmed ones flame behind the pal- 
ings bare, 

The whole of April in a tuft of grass. 

Scarce here, soon will it be — oh, sweet and 
fleet ! — 

Gone like a snatch of song upon the stair. 



TEARS 

When I consider Life and its few years — 
A wisp of fog betwixt us and the sun; 
A call to battle, and the battle done 
Ere the last echo dies within our ears; 
A rose choked in the grass; an hour of 

fears; 
The gusts that past a darkening shore do 

beat; 
The burst of music down an unlistening 

street — 
I wonder at the idleness of tears. 
Ye old, old dead, and ye of yesternight. 
Chieftains, and bards, and keepers of the 

sheep, 
By every cup of sorrow that you had. 
Loose me from tears, and make me see 

aright 
How each hath back what once he stayed 

to weep; 
Homer his sight, David his little lad ! 



IMMORTALITY 

Battles nor songs can from oblivion 
save. 
But Fame upon a white deed loves to 
build : 
From out that cup of water Sidney gave, 
Not one drop has been spilled. 



THOMAS k KEMPIS 

Brother of mine, good monk with cowled 

head. 
Walled from that world which thou hast 

long since fled, 
And pacing thy green close beyond the sea, 
I send my heart to thee. 

Down gust-sweet walks, bordered by 
lavender, 

While eastward, westward, the mad swal- 
lows whir, 

All afternoon poring thy missal fair. 

Serene thou pacest there. 

Mixed with the words and fitting like a 

tune. 
Thou hearest distantly the voice of June, — 
The little, gossipping noises in the grass. 
The bees that come and pass. 

Fades the long day; the pool behind the 

hedge 
Burns like a rose within the windy sedge; 
The lilies ghostlier grow in the dim air; 
The convent windows flare. 

Yet still thou lingerest; from pastures 

steep, 
Past the barred gate the shepherd drives 

his sheep; 
A nightingale breaks forth, and for a space 
Makes sweeter the sweet place. 

Then the gray monks by hooded twos and 

threes 
Move chapelward beneath the flaming 

trees; 
Closing thy book, back by the alleys fair 
Thou foUowest to prayer. 

Born to these brawling days, this work-sick 

age, 
Oft long I for thy simpler heritage; 
A thought of thee is like a breath of 

bloom 
Blown through a noisy room. 

For thou art quick, not dead. I picture 

thee 
Forever in that close beyond the sea; 
And find, despite this weather's headlong 

stir, 
Peace and a comforter. 



LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE 



6ii 



TELLING THE BEES 

Bathsheba came out to the sun, 

Out to our walled cherry-trees; 
The tears adown her cheek did run, 
Bathsheba standing in the sun, 
Telling the bees. 

My mother had that moment died; 
Unknowing, sped I to the trees, 
And plucked Bathsheba's hand aside; 
Then caught the name that there she 

cried 
Telling the bees. 

Her look I never can forget, 
I that held sobbing to her knees; 
The cherry-boughs above us met; 
I think I see Bathsheba yet 
Telling the bees. 



IN TIME OF GRIEF 

Dark, thinned, beside the wall of stone. 
The box dripped in the air; 
Its odor through my house was blown 
Into the chamber there. 

Remote and yet distinct the scent, 
The sole thing of the kind, 
As though one spoke a word half meant 
That left a sting behind. 

I knew not Grief would go from me, 
And naught of it be plain. 
Except how keen the box can be 
After a fall of rain. 



TO A TOWN POET 

Snatch the departing mood; 

Make yours its emptying reed, and pipe us 

still 
Faith in the time, faith in our common 

blood. 
Faith in the least of good: 
Song cannot fail if these its spirits fill ! 

What if your heritage be 

The huddled trees along the smoky ways; 

At a street's end the stretch of lilac sea; 

The vender, swart but free. 

Crying his yellow wares across the haze ? 



Your verse awaits you there; 

For Love is Love though Latin swords be 

rust, 
The keen Greek driven from gossipping 

mall and square; 
And Care is still but Care 
Though Homer and his seven towns are 

dust. 

Thus Beauty lasts, and, lo ! 

Now Proserpine is barred from Enna's hills, 

The flower she plucked yet makes an April 

show. 
Sets some town still a-glow. 
And yours the Vision of the Daffodils. 

The Old- World folk knew not 

More surge-like sounds than urban winters 

bring 
Up from the wharves at dusk to every spot; 
And no Sicilian plot 
More fire than heaps our tulips in the 

spring. 

Strait is the road of Song, 

And they that be the last are oft the first; 

Fret not for fame; the years are kind 

though long; 
You, in the teasing throng. 
May take all time with one shrewd lyric 

burst. 

Be reverend and know 

111 shall not last, or waste the ploughed 

land; 
Or creeds sting timid souls; and naught at 

all. 
Whatever else befall. 
Can keep us from the hollow of God's hand. 

Let trick of words be past ; 

Strict with the thought, unfearful of the 

form. 
So shall you find the way and hold it fast, 
The world hear, at the last. 
The horns of morning soimd above the 

storm. 



TRUST 

I am Thy grass, O Lord ! 

I grow up sweet and tall 
But for a day, beneath Thy sword 

To lie at evenfall 



6l2 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Yet have I not enough 

In that brief day of mine ? 
The wind, the bees, the wholesome stuff 

The sun pours out like wine. 

Behold, this is my crown, — 

Love will not let me be; 
Love holds me here ; Love cuts me 
down; 

And it is well with me. 

Lord, Love, keep it but so; 

Thy purpose is full plain: 
I die that after I may grow 

As tall, as sweet again. 



A HOLIDAY 

Along the pastoral ways I go, 
To get the healing of the trees, 
The ghostly news the hedges know; 
To hive me honey like the bees, 
Against the time of snow. 

The common hawthorn that I see, 
Beside the sunken wall astir, 
Or any other blossoming tree, 
Is each God's fair white gospeller. 
His book upon the knee. 

A gust-broken bough; a pilfered nest; 

Rumors of orchard or of bin; 

The thrifty things of east and west, — 



The countryside becomes my Inn, 
And I its happy guest. 



KEATS 

An English lad, who, reading in a book, 
A ponderous, leathern thing set on his knee, 
Saw the broad violet of the Egean Sea 
Lap at his feet as it were village brook. 
Wide was the east; the gusts of morning 

shook; 
Immortal laughter beat along that shore; 
Pan, crouching in the reeds, piped as of 

yore; 
The gods came down and thundered from 

that book. 
He lifted his sad eyes; his London street 
Swarmed in the sun, and strove to make him 

heed; 
Boys spun their tops, shouting and fair of 

cheek: 
But, still, that violet lapping at his feet, — 
An English lad had he sat down to read; 
But he rose up and knew himself a Greek. 



RESERVE 

Keep back the one word more, 
Nor give of your whole store; 
For, it may be, in Art's sole hour of need. 
Lacking that word, you shall be poor in- 
deed. 



JSilliam I^amilton ^apm 



THE SOUTHERN SNOW-BIRD 

I SEE a tiny fluttering form 
Beneath the soft snow's soundless storm, 
'Mid a strange noonlight palely shed 
Through mocking cloud-rifts overhead. 

All other birds are far from sight, — 
They think the day has turned to night; 
But he is cast in hardier mould, 
This chirping courier of the cold. 

« 
He does not come from lands forlorn. 
Where midnight takes the place of morn; 
Nor did his dauntless heart, I know. 
Beat first above Siberian snow; 



And yet an arctic bird he seems; 
Though nurtured near our southern streams. 
The tip of his small tail may be 
A snow-storm in epitome. 



TO A CHEROKEE ROSE 

Thy one white leaf is open to the sky. 
And o'er thy heart swift lights and 
shadows pass, — 

The wooing winds seem loath to wander by, 
Jealous of sunshine and the summer grass. 

Thy sylvan loveliness is pure and strong. 
For thou art bright and yet not overbold— 



W. H. HAYNE — G. E. MONTGOMERY 



613 



Like a young maid apart from fashion's 
throng — 
A virgin dowered with a heart of gold. 



QUATRAINS 

MOONLIGHT SONG OF THE MOCKING-BIRD 

Each golden note of music greets 
The listening leaves, divinely stirred, 
As if the vanished soul of Keats 
Had found its new birth in a bird. 

NIGHT MISTS 

Sometimes, when Nature falls asleep, 
Around her woods and streams 

The mists of night serenely creep — 
For they are Nature's dreams. 

AN AUTUMN BREEZE 

This gentle and half melancholy breeze 
Is but a wandering Hamlet of the trees, 
Who finds a tongue in every lingering leaf 
To voice some subtlety of sylvan grief. 

EXILES 

Hopes grimly banished from the heart 
Are the sad exiles that depart 
To melancholy's rayless goal, — 
A bleak Siberia of the soul. 

A CYCLONE AT SEA 

A THROAT of thunder, a tameless heart, 
And a passion malign and free, 

He is no sheik of the desert sand. 
But an Arab of the sea ! 



He sprang from the womb of some wild 
cloud. 

And was born to smite and slay; 
To soar like a million hawks set free, 

And swoop on his ocean prey ! 

He has scourged the Sea till her mighty 
breast 
Responds to his heart's fierce beat, 
And has torn brave souls from their bodies 
frail 
To fling them at Allah's feet. 

Possessed by a demon's lust of life. 
He revels o'er wrecks and graves. 

And hurtles onward in curbless speed, — 
Dark Bedouin of the waves. 



"SLEEP AND HIS BROTHER 
DEATH." 

Just ere the darkness is withdrawn. 

In seasons of cold or heat. 
Close to the boundary line of Dawn 

These mystical brothers meet. 

They clasp their weird and shadowy 
hands. 

As they listen each to each, 
But never a mortal understands 

Their strange immortal speech. 



THE YULE LOG 

Out of the mighty Yule log came 

The crooning of the lithe wood-flame, — 

A single bar of music fraught 

With cheerful yet half pensive thought, - 

A thought elusive: out of reach. 

Yet trembling on the verge of speech. 



(BeotQt (iBtigar flt^ontgoiticrp 



ENGLAND 
I 



The voice of England is a trumpet tone 
When that inviolate Mother wills it so: 
Nations may rise and fall, and tyrants go 
Upon their devious, darkened paths: alone 



England preserves her people and her 

throne. 
Her ancient freedom, her perpetual 

flow 
Of broad and brightened life; time shall 

not show 
This mighty Nation pitiful and prone. 



6i4 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



It is the Saxon soul that speaks in her, 
The stanchest soul that earth has ever 

wrought 
To guide humanity in faith and light. 
The shivering slave has been her worship- 
per, 
And with defiant courage she has taught 
Red Tyranny to cringe before the Right. 



TO A CHILD 

I LOOK Upon thy happy face — 
Dear child with those undarkened eyes 
Like glimpses of transparent skies — 
And dream of things which have no place 

In that small, golden head of thine; 
Things that no ten-year-old has yet 
Dared in his roguish wit to set 
To thought, or word, or rhythmic line. 

And it is better so, I think, 
Better the child should be a child. 
That he should grow as glad and wild 
As flowers upon a river's brink. 

Laugh, then, and romp, and kiss the 

sun. 
And be as if this ancient earth 
Were but the resting-place of mirth 
Since time was born and joy begun. 

Laugh, and I '11 be a child with thee, 
Forgetful of the days which fly. 
Forgetful of the nights which die. 
And sipping sweetness like the bee. 

For, oh ! remember, little sir, 
Childhood is but a passing spring, 
Loath to await the burgeoning 
Of summer and its fiery stir. . . . 

But no, my dreams will not be stilled; 
I cannot turn the long years back. 
And life for me has ploughed its track; 
The man must be the man, as willed; 

Not dreams, I warn thee, such as they, 
Our languid-hearted poets make, 
Nor such as many love to wake 
From fable or the Grecian lay; 



But dreams of an aspiring soul, 
That yearns with all its human might 
To steal the secrets of the night, 
To reach some high millennial goal. 

Here, at this hour, I view the sweep 
Of a vast century to its close, 
Sublime in its titanic throes. 
And in its plummet ocean-deep — 

A century thrilled from start to end 
With fearless striving, fearless hope, 
Whose larger mind and wider scope 
In one eternal progress tend. . . . 

Yet thine will be the loftier tread. 
And thine will be the swifter pace; 
When thou shalt be as I, the race 
Will scorn the marvels of the dead. 

Ah, thou shalt look so clear, so far, 
That all I wonder at will seem 
Like the first mistings of a dream 
Which dawns into a perfect star. 



A DEAD SOLDIER 

He sleeps at last — a hero of his race. 
Dead ! — and the night lies softly on his 

face, 
While the faint snmmer stars, like senti' 

nels, 
Hover above his lonely resting-place. 

A soldier, yet less soldier than a man, 
Who gave to justice what a soldier can, — 
The courage of his arm, a patient heart. 
And the fire-soul that flamed when wrong 
began. 

Not Caesar, Alexander, Antonine, 
No despot born of the old warrior line. 
Napoleons of the sword, whose cruel hands 
Caught at the throat of love upon its 
shrine, — 

But one who worshipped in the sweetei 

years 
Those rights that men have gained with 

blood and tears; 
Who led his armies like a priest of men. 
And fought his battles with anointed spears. 



GEORGE EDGAR MONTGOMERY — ELLA WHEELER WILCOX 615 



AT NIGHT 

The sun is sinking over hill and sea, 

Its red light fires a spectral line of shore ; 
Night droops upon our half-world mistily 
With sombre glory and ghost-haunted 
lore; 
The stars show dim and pallid in the sky, 
Vague, wraith-white glimmerings of vol- 
canic spheres. 
And a slim crescent of the moon appears 
Like some young herald in the hours that 
die. 

Soon we who watch the fading of a day, 
Who feel the cool winds of the ocean blow 

Upon our dusk fields in sweet, vagrant way, 
Freshening earth's arid spaces with their 
glow. 

Stand forth amid the infinite peace of night. 
An infinite peace for high and holy souls 
That strive to find their far, mysterious 
goals 

Beyond the horizon of their eager sight. 

At this sequestered hour when tender sleep 

Holds out to listless lives its precious 

boon, 

When men grow weary of the fruits they 

reap. 

Grow weary of recurrent dawn and noon, 



Peace dwells upon them for a little while. 
Like dew and shade upon the growing 

grass. 
And, mindless of uncounted hours that 
pass, 
They woo a deep oblivion and they smile. 

Yet I, whose nights are full of waking 
dreams, 
Sleep not — but watch the furtive mo- 
ments drift 
Like sluggish waves, and watch the fire- 
bright gleam 
Of vibrant planets rolling straight and 
swift 
Along their orbit pathways, even as life 
Moves in its earthward orbit to the grave. 
Till I, an atom, doomed to weep and slave, 
Feel my fast kinship with celestial strife. 

For now I see the universe outspread 

Within my vision, as with close-shut lids 
One may read clear the history of the dead 
And stand with Pharaohs by the Pyra- 
mids, 
Or sit within some rare Athenian home; 
Yes, as the words and deeds of men are 

brought 
Into the widening circle of my thought. 
The stars grow real to me like deathless 
Rome. 



€Ha JBIjcrier 3©iIcojC 



RECRIMINATION 



Said Life to Death: "Methinks, if I were 

you, 
I would not carry such an awesome face 
To terrify the helpless human race; 
And if indeed those wondrous tales be true 
Of happiness beyond, and if I knew 
About the boasted blessings of that place, 
I would not hide so miserly all trace 
Of my vast knowledge. Death, if I were 

you: 
But, like a glorious angel, I would lean 
Above the pathway of each sorrowing 

soul, 
Hope in my eyes, and comfort in my 

breath, 
And strong conviction in my radiant mien, 



The while I whispered of that beauteous 

goal. 
This would I do if I were you, O Death." 



Said Death to Life : " If I were you, my 

friend, 
I would not lure confiding souls each day 
With fair, false smiles to enter on a way 
So filled with pain and trouble to the end; 
i would not tempt those whom I should 

defend. 
Nor stand unmoved and see them go 

astray; 
Nor would I force unwilling souls to stay 
Who longed for freedom, were I you, my 

friend : 
But, like a tender mother, I would take 



6i6 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



The weary world upon my sheltering breast, 
And wipe away its tears, and soothe its 

strife; 
I would fulfil my promises, and make 
My children bless me as they sank to rest 
Where now they curse — if I were you, 

O Life." 



Life made no answer, and Death spoke 
again: 

"I would not woo from God's sweet no- 
thingness 

A soul to being, if I could not bless 

And crown it with all joy. If unto men 



My face seems awesome, tell me, Life, 

why then 
Do they pursue me, mad for my caress, 
Believing in my silence lies redress 
For your loud falsehoods ? " (so Death 

spoke again). 
" Oh, it is well for you I am not fair — 
Well that I hide behind a voiceless tomb 
The mighty secrets of that other place: 
Else would you stand in impotent de- 
spair, 
While unfledged souls straight from the 

mother's womb 
Rushed to my arms and spat upon your 
face ! " 



Cjjarkief Eotin J^iltiretJ 



TO AN OBSCURE POET WHO 
LIVES ON MY HEARTH 

Why shouldst tbou cease thy plaintive song 

When I draw near ? 
Has mankind done thee any wrong. 

That thou shouldst fear ? 

To see thee scampering to thy den, 

So wild and shy, 
'T would seem thou know'st the ways of men 

As well as I. 

'T is true the palmy days are o'er 

When all thy kind — 
Poor minstrel folk — at every door 

Might welcome find; 

For song was certain password then 

To every breast. 
And current coin that bought from men 

Food, fire, and rest; 

And these are more discerning days, 

More coldly just: 
I doubt thy rustic virelays 

Would earn a crust. 

The age is shrill and choral-like; 

For many sing, 
And he who would be heard must strike 

Life's loudest string. 

And thou, poor minstrel of the field, 
With slend,er tone, 



Art type of many a singer sealed 
To die unknown. 

And many a heart that would have sung 

Songs sweet to hear, 
Could passion give itself a tongue 

To catch the ear. 

But, cricket, thou shouldst trust in me, 

For thou and I 
Are brothers in adversity, — 

Both poor and shy. 

Ajad since the height of thy desire 

Is but to live. 
Thy little share of food and fire 

I freely give. 

And thou shalt sing of fields and hills 

And forest streams, 
Till thy rapt invocation stills 

My troubled dreams. 

IMPLORA PACE 

I STOOD within the cypress gloom 
Where old Ferrara's dead are laid. 

And mused on many a sculptured tomb. 
Moss-grown and mouldering in the 
shade. 

And there was one the eye might pass, 
And careless foot might tread upon 

A crumbling tablet in the grass, 

With weeds and wild vines overrun. 



C. L. HILDRETH — H. S. MORRIS 



617 



In the dim light I stooped to trace 
The lines the time-worn marble bore, 

Of reverent praise or prayer for grace — 
" Implora Pace ! " — nothing more. 

Name, fame, and rank, if any were, 

Had long since vanished from the 
stone, 

Leaving the meek, pathetic prayer, 
" Peace I implore ! " and this alone. 



AT THE MERMAID INN 

AFTER THE FIRST PERFORMANCE OF 
" HAMLET " 

At table yonder sits the man we seek. 
Beside the ingle, where the crimson flare 

Reveals him through the eddying tavern 
reek. 
Reclining easeful in his leathern chair; 

In russet doublet, bearded and benign. 

He looks a worthy burgher at his wine. 

Even so; but when thy veins ran fire to- 
night, 
Thy hand crept knotted to thy sword- 
hilt there. 

And through all moods of madness and 
delight 
Thy soul was hurried headlong, unaware. 

It seemed the genius or the scene should 
be 

Some radiant shape, brow-bound with 
majesty. 

And lo ! a man unsingled from the crowd 
By quick recognizance of reverent eyes, 

A dim, inobvious presence, kindly-browed. 
That sits apart, observant, thoughtful- 
wise, 



Weaving — who knows ? — what wondrous 

woof of song. 
What other Hamlet, from the shifting 

throng. ■ 

A pale, plain-favored face, the smile 
whereof 
Is beautiful; the eyes gray, changeful, 
bright. 
Low-lidded now, and luminous as love; 

Anon soul-searching, ominous as night, 
Seer-like, inscrutable, revealing deeps 
Wherein a mighty spirit wakes or sleeps. 

Here, where my outstretched hand might 
touch his arm, 
I gaze upon that mild and lofty mien. 
With that deep awe and unexpressive 
charm 
I feel in wide sea-solitudes serene ; 
Or on some immemorial mountain's crest — 
Eternity unveiled and manifest. 

For he hath wrought with nature and made 
known 
The marvel and the majesty of life ; 
Translating from the pages of his own 
The mighty heart of man, the stress and 
strife. 
The pain, the passion, and the bitter leaven, 
The cares that quell, the dreams that soar 
to heaven. 

So, whatsoever time shall make or mar, 

Or fate decree of benison or blame. 
This poet-player, like a wondrous star. 
Shall shed the solemn splendor of his 
fame. 
Wide as the world, while beauty has a 

shrine. 
While youth has hope, and love is yet 
divine. 



^^artije^on d^mitjj ^orri^ 



DESTINY 

A. D. 1899 

Our many years are made of clay and cloud, 
And quick desire is but as morning dew ; 

And love and life, that linger and are proud, 
Dissolve and are again the arching blue. 



For who shall answer what the ages ask ? 

Or who undo a one-day-earlier bud ? 
We are but atoms in the larger task 

Of law that seeks not to be understood. 

Shall we then gather to our meagre mien 
The purple of power, and sit above the 
seed, 



6i8 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



While still abroad the acres of the green 
Invisible feet leave imprint of their 
speed ? 

We are but part; the whole v/ithin the part 

Trembles, as heaven steadied in a stream. 

Not ours to question whence the leafage 

start, 

Or doubt the prescience of a people's 

dream. 

For these are cradled in the dark of time, 
And move in larger order than we know; 

The isolate act interpreted a crime, 

In perfect circle, shows the Mind below. 

Forth from the hush of equatorial heat 
The wiser mother drove her sable kin — 

Was it that through our vitiated wheat 
A lustier grain should swell the life, 
grown thin ? 

Was it that upward through a waste of 
blood 
The brutal tribe should struggle to a 
soul, — 
That white and black, in interchange of good. 
Might grope through ages to a loftier 
whole ? 

Who knows, who knows ? For while we 
mock with doubt 
The ceaseless loom thrids through its 
slow design; 
The waning artifice is woven out, 

And simple manhood rears a nobler line. 

Then wherefore clamor to your idols thus 
For bands to hold the Nation from its 
growth. 

And wax in terror at the overplus 

Won from dishonor and imperial sloth ? 

Wherefore implore the Power that lifts 
our might 

To punish what His providence ordains; 
To fix our star forever in its night; 

To hold us fettered in our ancient chains ? 

The Nation in God's garden swells to fruit. 
And He is glad, and blesses. Shall we 
then 
Shrink inward to the dulness of the root. 
And vanish from the onward march of 
men ? 



Give up the lands we won in loyal war; 

Give up the gain and glory, rule, renown, 
The orient commerce of the open door. 

The conquest, and the wide imperial 



Yea, were these all, 't were well to let them 
go; 
For idle gold is but an empty gain: 
An empire, reared on ashes of its foe. 
Falls, as have fallen the island-walls of 
Spain. 

Treasure is dust. They need it not who 
build 
On better things. Our gain is in the 
loss: 
In love and tears, self victories fulfilled. 
In manhood bending to the bitter cross. 

In burdens that make wise the bearer, 
wounds 

Taken in hate that sanctify the heart, 
In sympathies and sorrows, and in sounds 

That up from all the open waters start; 

In brotherhood that binds the broken ties 
And clasps the whole world closer into 
peace; 

In East and West enwoven loverwise. 
Mated for happy arts and home's increase. 

What though the sere leaf circle to the 
ground, — 
Its summer task is done, the bough is 
clean 
For Spring's ascent; the lost is later found 
In some new recess of the risen green. 

We are but Nature's menials. 'Tis her 
might 
Sets our strange feet on Australasian 
sands. 
Bids us to pluck the races from their night 
And build a State from out the brawling 
bands. 

Serene, she sweeps aside the more or less. 
The man or people, if her end be sure; 

Her brooding eyes, that ever bend to bless, 
Find guerdon for the dead that shall 
endure. 

Truth marches on, though crafty ignorance 
Heed not the footfall of the eternal tread. 



HARRISON SMITH MORRIS 



6ig 



The land that shrinks from Nature's armed 
advance 
Shall lie dishonored with her wasted dead. 

Tea, it behooves us that the light be free. 
We are but bearers, — it is Nature's 
own, — 
Runners who speed the way of Destiny, 
Yielding the torch whose flame is for- 
ward blown. 

We are in His wide grasp who holds the law, 
Who heaves the tidal sea, and rounds 
the year; 
We may return not, though the weak with- 
draw; 
We must move onward to the last fron- 
tier. 



THE LONELY-BIRD 

IN THE ADIRONDACKS 

O DAPPLED throat of white ! Shy, hidden 
bird! 
Perched in green dimness of the dewy 

wood. 
And murmuring, in that lonely, lover 
mood. 
Thy heart-ache, softly heard, 
Sweetened by distance, over land and lake. 

Why, like a kinsman, do I feel thy voice 
Awaken voices in me free and sweet ? 
Was there some far ancestral birdhood 
fleet 
That rose and would rejoice: 
A broken cycle rounded in a song ? 

The lake, like steady wine in a deep cup, 
Lay crystal in the curving mountain 

deeps; 
And now the air brought that long lyric up 
That sobs, then falls and weeps, 
And hushes silence into listening hope. 

Is it that we were sprung of one old kin, 
Children of brooding earth, that lets us 

tell, 
Thou from thy rhythmic throat, I deep 
within, 
These syllables of her spell, 
This hymned wisdom of her pondering 
years ? 



For thou hast spoken song- wise in a tongue 
I knew not till I heard the buried air 
Burst from the boughs and bring me 
what thou sung, 
Here where the lake lies bare 
To reaching summits and the azure sky. 

Thy music is a language of the trees. 
The brown soil, and the never-trodden 

brake ; 
Translatress art thou of dumb mysteries 
That dream through wood and lake; 
And I, in thee, have uttered what I am ! 



A PINE-TREE BUOY 

Where all the winds were tranquil, 

And all the odors sweet, 
And rings of tumbling upland 

Sloped down to kiss your feet: 

There, in a nest of verdure. 
You grew from bud to bough; 

You heard the song at mid-day, — 
At eve the plighted vow. 

But fate that gives a guerdon 

Takes back a double fee: 
She hewed you from your homestead 

And set you in the sea. 

And every bowling billow 

Bends down your barren head 

To hearken if the whisper 
Of what you knew is dead. 



MOHAMMED AND SEID 

Swept by the hot wind, stark, untrackable, 
The stony desert stretches to the sky. 
Deep-printed shadows at the tent-door lie, 
And camels slumber by the burning well. 
One weeps within, wrinkled and dusk of face, 
White-haired and lordly, o'er the new- ' 

brought dead: 
Mohammed over Seid, who loved and read 
Truth in the master when a fierce disgrace 
Burned in his blood and none would heed 

the word. 
"Behold the Prophet how he mourns a 

slave ! " 
So the slave's daughter, and Mohammed 

heard: 



620 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



" A friend has lost a friend. What Allah 

gave 
His wisdom takes. He never yet has 

erred ! " 
Thus said, and made the slain a martial 

grave. 

WALT WHITMAN 

He was in love with Truth and knew her 

near — 
Her comrade, not her suppliant on the 

knee: 
She gave him wild melodious words to be 
Made music that should haunt the atmos- 
phere. 
She drew him to her bosom, day-long 

dear, 
And pointed to the stars and to the sea, 
And taught him miracles and mystery, 
And made him master of the rounded 

year. 
Yet one gift did she keep. He looked in 
vain, 



Brow-shaded, through the darkness of the 

mist. 
Marking a beauty like a wandering breath 
That beckoned, yet denied his soul a tryst: 
He sang a passion, yet he saw not plain 
Till kind earth held him and he spake with 

death. 

FICKLE HOPE 

Hope, is this thy hand 

Lies warm as life in mine ? 
Is this thy sign 

Of peace none understand ? 

What ! art thou not steadfast ? 

From off the blue air's beach 

Wilt lean and reach 
The price of pity past ? 

I know not if I may 

Believe thee, Hope, or doubt: 

With pretty pout 
Wilt flee, or wilt thou stay ? 



€rnejeft Cro^fip 



CHOIR PRACTICE 

As I sit on a log here in the woods among 

the clean-faced beeches, 
The trunks of the trees seem to me like the 

pipes of a mighty organ. 
Thrilling my soul with wave on wave of the 

harmonies of the universal anthem — 
The grand, divine, eonic " I am" chorus. 

The red squirrel scolding in yonder hickory 

tree. 
The flock of blackbirds chattering in council 

overhead, 
The monotonous crickets in the unseen 

meadow. 
Even the silent ants travelling their narrow 

highway with enormous burdens at 

my feet — 
All, like choristers, sing in the green-arched 

cathedral 
The heaven-prompted mystery, " I am, I 

am." 
The rays of sunshine shoot down through 

the branches and touch the delicate 



ferns and the blades of coarse grass 
piercing up through last year's dead 
leaves. 
And all cry out together, " I am." 

We used to call upon all these works of the 
Lord to praise the Lord, and they 
did praise Him. 

But now they praise no longer, for they 
have been taught a new song, and 
with one accord they chant the " I 
am." 

I too would learn the new music, and I 
begin hesitatingly to take part in the 
world-wide choir practice. 

After all these quiet private rehearsals. 

At last in my own place you may look for 
me also in the final, vast, eternal 
chorus. 

And we, all of us, as you see us, are but 
mouth-pieces. 

Who is it that behind and beneath sings 
ever through us, now whispering, 
now thundering, " I am " ? 



ERNEST CROSBY— HARRY THURSTON PECK 



621 



THE SEARCH 

No one could tell me where my Soul might 

be. 
I searched for God, but God eluded me. 
I sought my Brother out, and found all 

three. 



THE SOUL OF THE WORLD 

The soul of the world is abroad to-night — 

Not in yon silvery amalgam of moon- 
beam and ocean, nor in the pink 
heat-lightning tremulous on the 
horizon ; 

Not in the embrace of yonder pair of lovers 
either, heart beating to heart in the 
shadow of the fishing-smack drawn 
up on the beach. 

All that — shall I call it illusion ? Nay, 



but at best it is a pale reflection of 
the truth. 
I am not to be put off with, symbols, for the 
soul of the world is itself abroad 
to-night. 

I neither see nor hear nor smell nor taste 

nor touch it, but faintly I feel it 

powerfully stirring. 
I feel it as the blind heaving sea feels the 

moon bending over it. 
I feel it as the needle feels the serpentine 

magnetic current coiling itself about 

the earth. 
I open my arms to embrace it as the lovers 

embrace each other, but my embrace 

is all inclusive. 
My heart beats to heart likewise, but it is 

to the heart universal, for the soul of 

the world is abroad to-night. 



Jparrp €8ur^ton ^tth 



HELIOTROPE 

Amid the chapel's chequered gloom 

She laughed with Dora and with Flora, 
And chattered in the lecture-room, — 
That saucy little sophomora ! 

Yet while, as in her other schools, 
She was a privileged transgres- 
sor. 
She never broke the simple rules 
Of one particular professor. 

But when he spoke of varied lore, 

Faroxytones and modes potential, 
She listened with a face that wore 
A look half fond, half reverential. 
To her that earnest voice was sweet, 
And though her love had no confes- 
sor, 
Her girlish heart lay at the feet 
Of that particular professor. 

And he had learned, among his books 

That held the lore of ages olden, 
To watch those ever changing looks. 
The wistful eyes, the tresses golden. 
That stirred his pulse with passion's 
pain 
And thrilled his soul with soft desire, 



And bade fond youth return again 
Crowned with his coronet of fire. 

Her sunny smile, her winsome ways, 

Were more to him than all his know- 
ledge, 
And she preferred his words of praise 
To all the honors of the college. 
Yet " What am foolish I to him ? " 
She whispered to her heart's confes- 
sor. 
" She thinks me old and gray and 
grim," 
In silence pondered the professor. 

Yet once when Christmas bells were rung 

Above ten thousand solemn churches. 
And swelling anthems grandly sung 

Pealed through the dim cathedral 
arches, — 
Ere home returning, filled with hope. 
Softly she stole by gate and gable. 
And a sweet spray of heliotrope 
Left on his littered study-table. 

Nor came she more from day to day 
Like sunshine through the shadows rift 
ing: 

Above her grave, far, far away, 

The ever silent snows were drifting; , 



622 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



And those who mourned her winsome 
face 

Found in its stead a swift successor 
And loved another in her place — 

All, save the silent old professor. 

But, in the tender twilight gray, 

Shut from the sight of carping critic, 
His lonely thoughts would often stray 
From Vedic verse and tongues Semitic, 
Bidding the ghost of vanished hope 

Mock with its past the sad possessor 
Of the dead spray of heliotrope 

That once she gave the old profes- 
sor. 

WONDERLAND 

Sweet eyes by sorrow still unwet, 
To you the world is radiant yet, 
A palace-hall of splendid truth 
Touched by the golden haze of youth, 
Where hopes and joys are ever rife 
Amid the mystery of life; 
And seeking all to understand. 
The world to you is Wonderland. 

I turn and watch with unshed tears 

The furrowed track of ended years; 

I see the eager hopes that wane. 

The joys that die in deathless pain. 

The coward Faith that falsehoods shake. 

The souls that faint, the hearts that break. 

The Truth by livid lips bemoaned, 

The Right defiled, the Wrong enthroned, — 

And, striving still to understand. 

The world to me is Wonderland. 

A little time, then by and by 

The puzzled thought itself shall die. 

When, like the throb of distant drums. 

The call inevitable comes 

To blurring brain and weary limb. 

And when the aching eyes grow dim. 



And fast the gathering shadows creep 
To lull the drowsy sense asleep. 
We two shall slumber hand in hand 
To wake, perhaps, in Wonderland. 

THE OTHER ONE 

Sweet little maid with winsome eyes 
That laugh all day through the tangled 
hair; 
Gazing with baby looks so wise 
Over the arm of the oaken chair, 
Dearer than you is none to me, 

Dearer than you there can be none; 
Since in your laughing face I see 
Eyes that tell of another one. 

Here where the firelight softly glows. 

Sheltered and safe and snug and warm, 
What to you is the wind that blows. 
Driving the sleet of the winter storm ? 
Round your head the ruddy light 
Glints on the gold from your tresses 
spun. 
But deep is the drifting snow to-night 
Over the head of the other one. 

Hold me close as you sagely stand. 

Watching the dying embers shine; 
Then shall I feel another hand 

That nestled once in this hand of mine; 
Poor little hand, so cold and chill, 

Shut from the light of stars and sun, 
Clasping the withered roses still 

That hide the face of the sleeping one. 

Laugh, little maid, while laugh you may, 

Sorrow comes to us all, I know; 
Better perhaps for her to stay 
Under the robe of drifting snow. 

Sing while you may your baby songs. 
Sing till your baby daj^s are done ; 
But oh the ache of the heart that longs 
Night and day for the other one ! 



f ranh %thh^ ^f^tanton 



ONE COUNTRY 

After all, 
One country, brethren ! We must rise or 
fall 



With the Supreme Republic. We must be 
The makers of her immortality, — 

Her freedom, fame. 

Her glory or her shame: 
Liegemen to God and fathers of the free ! 



FRANK LEBBY STANTON 



623 



After all — 
Hark ! from the heights the clear, strong, 

clarion call 
And the command imperious: "Stand 

forth. 
Sons of the South and brothers of the 
North ! 
Stand forth and be 
As one on soil and sea — 
Your country's honor more than empire's 
worth ! " 

After all, 
'T is Freedom wears the loveliest coronal ; 
Her brow is to the morning; in the sod 
She breathes the breath of patriots; every 
clod 

Answers her call 

And rises like a wall 
Against the foes of liberty and God ! 



A PLANTATION DITTY 

De gray owl sing f um de chimbly tsp : 
" Who — who — is — you-00 •? " 

En I say: " Good Lawd, hit 's des po' me, 

En I ain't quite ready fer de Jasper Sea; 

I 'm po' en sinful, en you 'lowed I 'd be; 
Oh, wait, good Lawd, 'twell ter-morror ! " 

De gray owl sing f um de cypress tree : 

" Who — who — is — you-00 ? " 
En I say: " Good Lawd, ef you look you '11 

see 
Hit ain't nobody but des po' me. 
En I like ter stay 'twell my time is 
free; 
Oh, wait, good Lawd, 'twell ter-morror ! " 



THE GRAVEYARD RABBIT 

In the white moonlight, where the willow 

waves, 
He halfway gallops among the graves — • 
A tiny ghost in the gloom and gleam. 
Content to dwell where the dead men 

dream. 

But wary still ! 
For they plot him ill ; 
For the graveyard rabbit hath a charm 
(May God defend us !) to shield from 
harm. 



Over the shimmering slabs he goes — 
Every grave in the dark he knows; 
But his nest is hidden from human eye 
Where headstones broken on old graves lie. 

Wary still ! 

For they plot him ill; 

For the graveyard rabbit, though sceptics 

scofp, 
Charmeth the witch and the wizard off ! 

The black man creeps, when the night is 

dim. 
Fearful, still, on the track of him; 
Or fleetly follows the way he runs, 
For he heals the hurts of the conjured ones. 

Wary still ! 
For they plot him ill; 

The soul 's bewitched that would find re- 
lease, — 
To the graveyard rabbit go for peace ! 

He holds their secret — he brings a boon 
Where winds moan wild in the dark o' the 

moon; 
And gold shall glitter and love smile sweet 
To whoever shall sever his furry feet ! 

Wary still ! 
For they plot him ill; 
For the graveyard rabbit hath a charm 
(May God defend us !) to shield from 
harm. 



THE MOCKING-BIRD 

He did n't know much music 

When first he come along; 
An' all the birds went wonderin' 

Why he did n't sing a song. 

They primped their feathers in the sun, 
An' sung their sweetest notes; 

An' music jest come on the run 
From all their purty throats ! 

But still that bird was silent 

In summer time an' fall; 
He jest set still an' listened. 

An' he would n't sing at all ! 

But one night when them songsters 
Was tired out an' still, 



624 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD— DIVISION III 



An' the wind sighed down the valley 


• A LITTLE WAY 


An' went creepin' up the hill; 






A LITTLE way to walk with you, my own — ■ 


When the stars was all a-tremble 


Only a little way. 


In the dreamin' fields 0' blue, 


Then one of us must weep and walk alone 


An' the daisy in the darkness 


Until God's*day. ^ 


Felt the f allin' 0' the dew, — 






A little way ! It is so sweet to live 


There come a sound 0' melody 


Together, that I know- 


No mortal ever heard. 


Life would not have one withered rose to 


An' all the birds seemed singin' 


give 


From the throat 0' one sweet bird ! 


If one of us should go. 


Then the other birds went Mayin' 


And if these lips should ever learn to smile, 


In a land too fur to call; 


With thy heart far from mine. 


Fer there warn't no use in stayin' 


'T would be for joy that in a little while 


When one bird could sing fer all ! 


They would be kissed by thine ! 



Hl^argarrt SDelanti 



LOVE AND DEATH 

Alas ! that men must see 

Love, before Death ! 
Else they content might be 

With their short breath ; 
Aye, glad, when the pale sun 
Showed restless Day was done. 
And endless Rest begun. 

Glad, when with strong, cool hand 

Death clasped their own. 
And with a strange command 

Hushed every moan; 
Glad to have finished pain. 
And labor wrought in vain, 
Blurred by Sin's deepening stain. 

But Love's insistent voice 

Bids Self to flee — 
" Live that I may rejoice. 

Live on, for me ! " 
So, for Love's cruel mind. 
Men fear this Rest to find, 
Nor know great Death is kind ! 

SENT WITH A ROSE TO A 
YOUNG LADY 

Deep in a Rose's glowing heart 

I dropped a single kiss, 
And then I bade it quick depart, 

And tell my Lady this: 



and 



" The love thy Lover tried to send 
O'erflows my fragrant bowl. 

But my soft leaves would break 
bend, 
Should he send half the whole ! " 

THE CLOVER 



O RUDDY Lover — 

brave red Clover ! 
Didst think to win her 

Thou dost adore ? 

She will not love thee, 

She looks above thee. 
The Daisy's gold doth move her more. 

If gold can win her, 

Then Love 's not in her; 

So leave the Sinner, 
And sigh no more ! 

LOVE'S WISDOM 

How long I 've loved thee, and how well — ■ 

1 dare not tell ! 

Because, if thou shouldst once divine 

This love of mine, 
Or did but once my tongue confess 

My heart's distress. 
Far, far too plainly thou wouldst see 

My slavery, 
And, guessing what Love's wit should hide. 
Rest satisfied I 



MARGARET DELAND — TUDOR JENKS 



625 



So, though I worship at thy feet, 

I '11 be discreet — 
And all my love shall not be told, 

Lest thou be cold, 
And, knowing I was always thine, 



Scorn to be mine. 
So am I dumb, to rescue thee 

From tyranny — 
And, by my silence, I do prove 

Wisdom and Love ! 



Cutior 3[cnfe^ 



SMALL AND EARLY 

When Dorothy and I took tea, we sat upon 

the floor; 
No matter how much tea I drank, she 

always gave me more; 
Our table was the scarlet box in which her 

tea-set came; 
Our guests, an armless one-eyed doll, a 

wooden horse gone lame. 
She poured out nothing, very fast, — the 

tea-pot tipped on high, — 
And in the bowl found sugar lumps unseen 

by my dull eye. 
She added rich (pretended) cream — it 

seemed a wilful waste, 
For though she overflowed the cup, it did 

not change the taste. 
She asked, « Take milk ? " or " Sugar ? " 

and though I answered, "No," 
She put them in, and told me that I " must 

take it so ! " 
She 'd say " Another cup, Papa ? " and I, 

" No, thank you. Ma'am," 
But then I had to take it — her courtesy 

was sham. 
Still, being neither green, nor black, nor 

English-breakfast tea. 
It did not give her guests the " nerves " — 

whatever those may be. 
Though often I upset my cup, she only 

minded when 
I would mistake the empty cups for those 

she 'd filled again. 
She tasted my cup gingerly, for fear I 'd 

burn my tongue ; 
Indeed, she really hurt my pride — she 

made me feel so young. 
I must have drunk some twoscore cups, and 

Dorothy sixteen, 



Allowing only needful time to pour them, 
in between. 

We stirred with massive pewter spoons, 
and sipped in courtly ease. 

With all the ceremony of the stately Japan- 
ese. 

At length she put the cups away. " Good- 
night, Papa," she said; 

And I went to a real tea, and Dorothy to 
bed. 



THE SPIRIT OF THE MAINE 

In battle-line of sombre gray 

Our ships-of-war advance, 
As Red Cross Knights in holy fray 

Charged with avenging lance. 
And terrible shall be thy plight, 

O fleet of cruel Spain ! 
For ever in our van doth fight 

The spirit of the Maine ! 

As when beside Regillus Lake 

The Great Twin Brethren came 
A righteous fight for Rome to make 

Against the Deed of Shame — 
So now a ghostly ship shall doom 

The fleet of treacherous Spain : 
Before her guilty soul doth loom 

The spirit of the Maine ! 

A wraith arrayed in peaceful white, 

As when asleep she lay 
Above the traitorous mine that night 

Within Havana Bay, 
She glides before the avenging fleet, 

A sign of woe to Spain. 
Brave though her sons, how shall they meet 

The spirit of the Maine ! 



620 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



%\ttt ^^toton 



CANDLEMAS 



O HEARKEN, all ye little weeds 

That lie beneath the snow, 
(So low, dear hearts, in poverty so low !) 
The sun hath risen for royal deeds, 
A valiant wind the vanguard leads ; 
Now quicken ye, lest unborn seeds 

Before ye rise and blow. 

O furry living things, adream 
On Winter's drowsy breast, 
(How rest ye there, how softly, safely 
rest !) 
Arise and follow where a gleam 
Of wizard gold unbinds the stream, 
And all the woodland windings seem 
With sweet expectance blest. 

My birds, come back ! the hollow sky 
Is weary for your note. 
(Sweet-throat, come back ! O liquid, mel- 
low throat !) 
Ere May's soft minions hereward fly, 
Shame on ye, laggards, to deny 
The brooding breast, the sun-bright eye. 
The tawny, shining coat ! 



TRILBY 

O LIVING image of eternal youth ! 
Wrought with such large simplicity of 

truth 
That, now the pattern 's made and on the 

shelf. 
Each vows he might have cut it for him- 
self; 
Nor marvels that we sang of empty days. 
Of rank-grown laurel and unpruned bays. 
While yet, in all this lonely Crusoe land, 
The Trilby footprint had not touched the 

sand. 
Here 's a new carelessness of Titan play. 
Here 's Ariel's witchery to lead the way 
In such sweet artifice of dainty wit 
That men shall die with imitating it. 
Now every man's old grief turns in its 

bed, 
And bleeds a drop or two, divinely red; 
Fair baby joys do rouse them, one by 
one. 



Dancing a lightsome round, though love be 

done; 
And Memory takes off her frontlet dim 
To bind a bit of tinsel round the rim. 
Dreams come to life, and faint f oreshadow- 

ings 
Flutter anear us on reluctant wings. 
But not one pang, nay, though 't were gall 

of bliss, 
And not one such awakening would we 

miss. 
O comrades, here 's true stuff ! ours to 

adore. 
And swear we '11 carve our cherry-stones 

no more. 



CLOISTERED 

Seal thou the window ! Yea, shut out the 

light 
And bar my door to all the airs of spring. 
Yet in my cell, concealed from curious 

sight, _ 
Here will I sit and sing. 

Deaf, blind, and wilt Thou have me dumb, 

also. 
Telling in silence these sad beads of days ? 
So let it be : though no sweet numbers flow, 
My breath shall be Thy praise. 

Yea, though Thou slay the life wherein 

men see 
The upward-mounting flame, the failing 

spark. 
My heart of love, that heart Thou gavest 

me. 
Shall beat on in the dark. 



LIFE 

What, comrade of a night. 
No sooner meet than fight ? 
Before the word, the blow ? 
Well, be it so. 

Yet think not Thou I yield, 
Lost on a lonely field. 
Lo ! to my fainting breath, 
My champion. Death ! 



ALICE BROWN — WILLIAM MORTON PAYNE 



627 



SLEEP 

Withdraw thee, soul, from strife. 
Enter thiae unseen bark, 
And sail across the dark, 
The silent sea of life. 
Leave Care and Grief, feared now no more, 
To wave and beckon from the shore. 

Thy tenement is bare. 

Shut are the burning eyes, 
Ears deaf against surprise, 
Limbs in a posture fair. 
The body sleeps, unheeding thee, 
And thou, my sailing soul, art free. 



Rouse not to choose thy way; 

To make it long or short, 

Or seek some golden port 

In haste, ere springs the day. 

Desire is naught, and effort vain: 

Here he who seeks shall ne'er attain. 

Dream-winged, thy boat may drift 
Where lands lie warm in light; 
Or sail, with silent flight, 
Oblivion cleaving swift. 
Still, dusk or dawning, art thou blest, 
O Fortune's darling, dowered with rest ! 



JBiHtam Sl^orton ^Papne 



INCIPIT VITA NOVA 

What time the earth takes on the garb of 

Spring, 
And new-born joy runs riot in the blood. 
When the year's tide turns refluent to its 

flood, 
And blissful birds their songs are carol- 

ling> — 
When life once more is fair, and every- 
thing 
In nature smiles, when tender flowrets bud, 
And deck the mead as stars the heavens 

stud, — 
What wonder that my heart leaps up to 

sing ! 
What wonder that to thee my song of praise 
I bring, and burn sweet incense at thy 

shrine. 
And offer all the worship of my lays 
To thee, whose loveliness hath lent my 

days 
That life renewed whereof the Florentine 
Sang ere he wrote the Comedy Divine ! 



"EJ BLOT TIL LYST" 

(" Not for pleasure only," — the motto of the Royal 
Theatre at Copenhagen.) 

Not merely for our pleasure, but to purge 
The soul from baseness, from ignoble fear, 
And all the passions that make dim the 
clear 



Calm vision of the world ; our feet to urge 

On to ideal far-set goals; to merge 

Our being with the heart of things ; brought 

near 
The springs of life, to make us see and 

hear 
And feel its swelling and pulsating surge : — 
Such, Thespian art divine, thy nobler aim; 
For this the tale of QEdipus was told, 
Of frenzied Lear, Harpagon's greed of 

gold ; — 
And, knowing this, how must we view with 

shame 
Thy low estate, and hear the plaudits 

loud 
That mark thee now but pander to the 

crowd ! 



TANNHAUSER 

Sin-satiate, and haggard with despair, 
Freed from the unholy mountain's baleful 

spell. 
Forth coming from the very pit of Hell, 
The fallen knight repentant kneels in 

prayer. 
But hark ! what solemn strains fill all the 

air? 
What pilgrim chants now on the morning 

swell. 
And pour hope's balm upon his soul, and 

tell 
Of pardon, if he to Christ's seat repair ? 



628 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



With fervent heart he treads the weary 

way, 
Kneels at the throne of God's anointed, 

hears 
The fearful doom repentance may not stay: 
And yet, in death's last gasp — if he but 

heed — 
An angel voice soft whispers in his ears 
That for Mm too the Saviour once did bleed. 



LOHENGRIN 

Strain, strain thine eyes, this parting is 

for aye ! 
Grief have her will of thee ! Thy faith 

confessed 
To his unequal, he must go, the quest 



Fulfilled that brought him hither on thy 

day 
Of imminent, direst peril. Now away 
To other shores bids him the Grail's behest. 
Thou knewest him too late to spare thy 

breast 
This keen remorse, thy soul this dark dis- 
may. 
Yet canst thou face not all disconsolate 
The coming years. The horn remains, the 

sword, 
The ring he left thee, and the child whom 

late 
Thou mournedst; while beyond the power 

of fate 
To dim the memory of that love outpoured 
Upon thee by thy stainless knight and 

lord. 



a^ilicait JDajeftjftuni ^^mn 



SONG AND SCIENCE 

" THE TWILIGHT OF THE POETS " 

Spirit of song, whose shining wings have 

borne 
Our souls of old to many a clear blue height, 
Comes there the day that leaves our world 

forlorn 
Of thy clear singing in the haunted night ? 
For while from out the western radiance 

low 
Like stars the great dead shining upward 

Behold, thy wings are poised to join their 

flight: 
Yet follow not within the golden door 
Those starry souls; but when the time is 

full, 
Let thy fair-shining garments, white as 

wool, 
Glimmer once more across our earth's 

green floor. 

Well was it for thee when the moonlight 

filled 
The Syrian nights, and all the air was 

stilled 
With large and simple faith, until men 

felt 
Somewhat most stern and mighty brooding 

o'er them, 



And grimly as Jehovah's warriors bore 

them. 
Well was it for thee where the glad gods 

dwelt 
In happy Hellas, clasped by silver nights, 
When on the clear blue of Olympian 

heights 
Apollo's lyre, and by the reedy stream 
Pan's shrill, sweet pipe made life a sunny 

dream. 
Well wa,s it for thee in the English wood, 
When red, new leaves were bursting out 

of bud, 
And hearts were fresh as young leaves on 

the elm. 
And well, through all the centuries since, 

thy realm 
Has loyally been kept for thee, and thou. 
Departing oft, hast still returned; but 

now 
New powers devour thy kingdom day by 

day. 
How shouldst thou come amidst such waste 

to stay ? 

For even now, across that western glow, 
A keen light whitens coldly in the east, 
And glittering on the slopes of morning, 

!«' . 
One comes in silver arms ; and aye increased 

The sharp light shines, and men beholding 

turn 



MILICENT WASHBURN SHINN 



629 



From thee, and kneel before this wonder 

new, 
Upon whose crest the conquered stars do 

burn. 
No white wings gleam like thine against 

the blue, 
Yet swift his foot and strong; and in his 

hand — 
Ah, bright and terrible ! — he bears the 

brand 
Of truth, and in its gleam the lightning 

plays. 
Exultant, young, full-armed from spur to 

helm, 
Spirit of song, he comes to claim thy realm ; 
And coldly o'er thy lingering radiance 

low 
The keener splendors that attend him 

flow. 
What place is left for thee in all earth's 

ways ? 

Yet that strong warrior that recks not of 

thee 
Shall one day turn his eyes and see thy face 
Shine like a star from some far deep of 

space, — 
And all his spirit unto thee shall yearn. 
Until he call thee back, and win thy 

grace. 
And on thy brow his captive stars shall 

burn ; 
And in wide realms, new-conquered unto 

thee 
By that great sword, thine olden smile 

shall shine; 
Unto deep chords of many an unknown 

sea. 
Thy voice shall join its world-old notes 

divine. 



WHEN ALMONDS BLOOM 

When almoud buds unclose, 
Soft white and tender rose, — 
A swarm of white moth things, 
With sunset on their wings. 
That fluttering settle down 
On branches chill and brown; 
When all the sky is blue. 
And up from grasses new 
Blithe springs the meadow lark, — 
Sweet, sweet, from dawn to dark; — 



When all the young year's way 
Grows sweeter day by day; — 
When almond buds unclose. 
Who doubts of May's red rose? 



YOSEMITE 

FROM " THE WASHINGTON SEQUOIA " 

Soul of a tree ungrown, new life out of 

God's life proceeding. 
Folded close in the seed, waking — O 

wonder of wonders — 
Waking with power as a spirit to clothe 

thee in leaves and in branches, 
What, in thine age-long future, is the 

word thou art set here to say ? 

Far in the great Sierra dwell the mighty 
groups of thy kindred; 

Aisles of the sounding pines; and colon- 
nades dusky and fragrant. 

Pillared with ridgy shafts of tall and won- 
derful cedar. 
Lead to their presence; and round 
them forever the mountains stand. 

Deep in that inner temple listens the fortu- 
nate pilgrim. 

Low where the red lilies tremble he lies 
while the still hours pass by him, 

Baring his brows to the silence, the dear 
and intimate greatness, 
The touch of the friendly air, like a 
quiet and infinite hand. 

Far, far up from the earth, in the lower 
spaces of heaven, 

Shadowy green on the blue, rests the mov- 
ing lace of the branches. 

Holding the faint winds captive, dropping 
but lightest of murmurs, 
Spirits of far-away sound, to the wind- 
less reaches below. 

Deep in that inner temple listens the fortu- 
nate pilgrim; 

Infinite things they say to him, the mighty 
groups of thy kindred, — 

Life beyond life, and soul within soul, and 
God around all as an ocean, — 
Whispers his heart dimly guesses, 
secrets he never may know. 



630 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD— DIVISION III 



Siamej^ benjamin Hcnpon 



TACITA 

She roves through shadowy solitudes, 
Where scentless herbs and fragile flow- 
ers 

Pine in the gloom that ever broods 
Around her sylvan bowers. 

No winds amid the branches sigL^ 

No footfall wakes the sodden ground; 

And the cold streams that hurry by 
Flow on without a sound. 

Strange, voiceless birds from spray to spray 

Flit silently; and all day long 
The dancing midges round her play. 

But sing no elfin song. 

The haunting twilight ebbs and flows; 

Chill is the night, wan is the morn ; 
Through this dim wood no minstrel goes, 

No hunter winds his horn. 

No panting stag seeks yon dark pool; 

No shepherd calls his bleating sheep 
From sunburnt meads to shadows cool. 

And grasses green and deep. 

Across her path, from reed to reed, 
The spider weaves his gossamer; 

She recks not where her footsteps lead, 
The world is dead to her. 

Her eyes are sad, her face is pale. 
Her head droops side wise wearily; 

Her dusky tresses, like a veil, 
Down ripple to her knee. 

How many a cycle hath she trod 
Each mossy aisle, each leafy dell ! 

Alas, her feet with silence shod 
Ne'er flee the hateful spell ! 



QUATRAINS 

THE BEDOUINS OF THE SKIES 

Yox clouds that roam the deserts of the 
air, 
On wind-swift barbs, o'er many an azure 
plain, 



Scarce pause to lift to Allah one small 
prayer. 
Ere Ishmael's spirit drives them forth 
again. 

THE TWO SPIRITS 

I DKEAMED two Spirits came — one dusk as 
night : 
"Mortals miscall me Life," he sadly 
saith ; 
The other, with a smile like morning 
light. 
Flashed his strong wings and spake, 
"Men name me Death." 

A CHALLENGE 

Akise, O soul, and gird thee up anew, 
Though the black camel Death kneel at 
thy gate; 
No beggar thou that thou for alms shouldst 
sue; 
Be the proud captain still of thine own 
fate! 



DEATH AND NIGHT 

The bearded grass waves in the summer 

breeze ; 
The sunlight sleeps along the distant hills; 
Faint is the music of the murmuring 

rills. 
And faint the drowsy piping of the bees. 
The languid leaves scarce stir upon the 

trees. 
And scarce is heard the clangor of the 

mills 
In the far distance, and the high, sharp 

trills 
Of the cicada die upon the leas. 
O death, what art thou ? Hast thou peace 

like this ? 
Or, underneath the daisies, out of sight. 
Hast thou in keep some higher, calmer 

bliss ? 
Ah me ! 't is pleasant to behold the light. 
And missing this, O death, would we not 

miss 
That weariness which makes us love the 

niffht ? 



KENYON — CRANDALL 



631 



BRING THEM NOT BACK 

Yet, O my friend — pale conjurer, I call 
Thee friend — bring, bring the dead not 

back again, 
Since for the tears, the darkness and the 

pain 
Of unrequited friendship — for the gall 
That hatred mingles with fond love — for 

all 
Life's endless turmoil, bitterness and bane. 
Thou hast given dreamless rest. Still let 

the rain, 
And sunshine, and the dews from heaven 

.fall 
Upon the graves of those whose peaceful 

eyes 
Thy breath hath sealed forever. Let the 

song 
Of summer birds be theirs, and in the 

skies 
Let the pale stars keep vigil all night 

long. 



O death, call not the holy dead to rise, 
Again to feel the cold world's ruth and 
wrong. 



COME SLOWLY, PARADISE 

O DAWN upon me slowly, Paradise ! 

Come not too suddenly, 
Lest my just-opened, unaccustomed eyes 

Smitten with blindness be. 

To those who from Time's penury and 
woe 
Rise to thy heights afar, 
Down which the floods of glory fall and 
flow, 
Too great thy splendors are. 

So grow upon me slowly ; sweetly break 

Across death's silent deep, 
Till to thy morning brightness I shall wake 

As one from happy sleep. 



Cl^adciSf ]^cnrp Crantiall 



STELLA 

Home from the observatory, 
Now I take her on my knee, 

And I tell her all the glory 
That the lenses showed to me. 

Pleased, she listens to my story, 
Earnest look then turneth she 

Where the stars are softly blinking 
In the blue of summer skies. 

Ah ! she sees beyond my thinking. 
Even into Paradise ! 

Very humbly I am drinking 

What o'erfloweth from her eyes. 



THE HUMAN PLAN 

Child, weary of thy baubles of to-day — 
Child with the golden or the silver hair — 
Say, how wouldst thou have built creation's 

stair, 
Hadst thou been free to have thy puny 

way? 
Could thy intelligence have shot the ray 



That lit the universe of upper air ? 

Wouldst thou have bid the surging stars to 
dare 

Their glorious flight and never stop nor 
stay? 

Yet, casting on this life thy weak dis- 
dain, 

Thou triest to guess thy lot in loftier 
places, 

To draw the heaven of our human need; 

A door of rest, a flash of wings, a strain 

Of 'trancing music, and the long-lost faces ! 

But, after all, what may be Heaven indeed ? 



WITH LILACS 

I BEG the pardon of these flowers 
For bringing them to one whose hair 
Alone doth shame, beyond compare, 
The sweetest blooms of richest bowers. 

I beg the pardon of this maid 
For oflPering them with hand less pure, 
A heart less perfect, needing cure 
By Love's own music, softly played. 



632 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Cjjatle^ J^enrp HuUer^ 



THE FOUR WINDS 

Wind of the North, 

Wmcl of the Norland snows, 

Wind of the winnowed skies, and sharp, 
clear stars, — 

Blow cold and keen across the naked hills. 

And crisp the lowland pools with crystal 
films, 

And blur the casement squares with glitter- 
ing ice, 

But go not near my love. 

Wind of the West, 

Wind of the few, far clouds, 

Wind of the gold and crimson sunset lands, — 

Blow fresh and pure across the peaks and 

plains. 
And broaden the blue spaces of the heavens. 
And sway the grasses and the mountain 

pines, 
But let my dear one rest. 

Wind of the East, 

Wind of the sunrise seas, 

Wind of the clinging mists and gray, harsh 

rains, — 
Blow moist and chill across the wastes of 

brine, 
And shut the sun out, and the moon and 

stars, 
And lash the boughs against the dripping 

eaves. 
Yet keep thou from my love. 

But thou, sweet wind ! 

Wind of the fragrant South, 

Wind from the bowers of jasmine and of 

rose, — 
Over magnolia blooms and lilied lakes 
And flowering forests come with dewy 

wings, 
And stir the petals at her feet, and kiss 
The. low mound where she lies. 



THE HAUNTS OF THE 
HALCYON 

To stand within a gently gliding boat. 
Urged by a noiseless paddle at the stern, 
Whipping the crystal mirror of the fern 



In fairy bays where water-lilies float; 

To hear your reel's whirr echoed by the 
throat 

Of a wild mocking-bird, or round some turn 

To chance upon a wood-duck's brood that 
churn 

Swift passage toward their mother's warn- 
ing note, — 

This i^ to rule a realm that nevermore 

May aught but restful weariness invade; 

This is to live again the old days o'er. 

When nymph and dryad haunted stream 
and glade; 

To dream sweet, idle dreams of having 
strayed 

To Arcady, with all its golden lore. 



HEART OF OAK 

Lean close and set thine ear against the 

bark; 
Then tell me what faint, murmurous sounds 

are heard: 
Hath not the oak stored up the song of bird, 
Whisper of wind and rain-lisp ? Ay, and 

hark ! 
The shadowy elves that fret the summer 

dark. 
With clash of horny winglets swiftly 

whirred, 
Hear'st thou not them, with myriad noises, 

blurred, 
Yet well defined if one but shrewdly mark ? 
And thou, — when thy Familiar setteth ear 
Unto thy bosom, doth he note the same 
Sweet concord of harmonious sounds within? 
Or is all hushed in hollow silence drear ? 
An 't be, pray Heaven to save thee from 

thy shame 
Ere thy whole soul be slain by cankerous sin. 



AN OLD THOUGHT 

Framed in the cavernous fire-place sits a 
boy. 
Watching the embers from his grand- 
sire's knee: 

One sees red castles rise, and laughs with 

joy; 

The other marks them crumble, silently. 



CHARLES HENRY LUDERS — MARY AUGUSTA MASON 633 



THE MOUNTEBANKS 

Over our heads the branches made 
A canopy of woven sljade. 

The birds about this beechen tent 
Like deft attendants came and went. 

A shy wood-robin, fluting low, 
Furnished the music for the show. 

The cricket and the grasshopper 
A portion of the audience were. 

Thither did Fancy leap to fling 
Light summersaults around the ring. 



Wit, the sly jester of the Town, 
And rustic Humor played the clown; 

Reason was ringmaster, and waved 
His whip when these his anger braved; 

Wishes were horses that each rode 
Unto his heart's desire's abode. 

There Laughter and Delight and Glee 
Performed their parts that all might see, 

Till a sweet wind across the clover 
Whispered, " At last, the show is over," 

And the broad shadow of a cloud 
Moved from us like a moving crowd. 



fl©arp 3Cu0U^ta Sr^a^on 



THE SCARLET TANAGER 

A FLAME went flitting through the wood; 
The neighboring birds all understood 

Here was a marvel of their kind; 
And silent was each feathered throat 
To catch the brilliant stranger's note. 
And folded every songster's wing 
To hide its sober coloring. 

Against the tender green outlined. 
He bore himself with splendid ease, 
As though alone among the trees. 
The glory passed from bough to bough — 
The maple was in blossom now. 
And then the oak, remembering 
The crimson hint it gave in spring, 
And every tree its branches swayed 
And offered its inviting shade; 
Where'er a bough detained him long, ■ 
A slender, silver thread of song 
Was lightly, merrily unspun. 
From early morn till day was done 

The vision flitted to and fro. 
At last the wood was all alone ; 
But, ere the restless flame had flown. 
He left a secret with each bough. 
And in the Fall, where one is now, 

A thousand tanagers will glow. 



MY LITTLE NEIGHBOR 

My little neighbor's table 's set, 
And slyly he comes down the tree, 

His feet firm in each tiny fret 

The bark has fashioned cunningly. 

He pauses on a favorite knot; 

Beneath the oak his feast is spread; 
He asks no friend to share his lot. 

Or dine with him on acorn bread. 

He keeps his whiskers trim and neat, 
His tail with care he brushes through; 

He runs about on all four feet — 
When dining he sits up on two. 

He has the latest stripe in furs, 

And wears them all the year around; 

He does not mind the prick of burs 
When there are chestnuts to be found. 

I watch his home and guard his store, 

A cozy hollow in a tree ; 
He often sits within his door 

And chatters wondrous things to me. 



634 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



^enrp '^ittomt ^tocfearti 



OVER THEIR GRAVES 

Over their graves rang once the bugle's 

call, 
The searching shrapnel and the crashing 
ball; 
The shriek, the shock of battle, and the 

neigh 
Of horse; the cries of anguish and 
dismay; 
And the loud cannon's thunders that appall. 

Now through the years the brown pine- 
needles fall. 
The vines run riot by the old stone wall. 
By hedge, by meadow streamlet, far 
away, 

Over their graves. 

We love our dead where'er so held in 

thrall. 
Than they no Greek more bravely died, nor 
Gaul — 
A love that 's deathless ! — but they look 

to-day 
With no reproaches on us when we say, 
" Come, let us clasp your hands, we 're 
brothers all. 

Over their graves ! " 



AS 



SOME MYSTERIOUS WAN- 
DERER OF THE SKIES 



As some mysterious wanderer of the skies, 
Emerging from the deeps of outer dark, 
Traces for once in human ken the arc 
Of its stupendous curve, then swiftly flies 
Out through some orbit veiled in space, 

which lies 
Where no imagination may embark, — 
Some onward-reaching track that God did 

mark 
For all eternity beneath his eyes, — 
So comes the soul forth from Creation's vast; 
So clothed with mystery moves through 

mortal sight; 
Then sinks away into the Great Unknown. 
What systems it hath seen in all the past, 
What worlds shall blaze upon its future flight, 
Thou knowest, eternal God, and thou alone ! 

THE MOCKING-BIRD 

The name thou wearest does thee grievous 

wrong. 

No mimic thou ! That voice is thine alone ! 

The poets sing but strains of Shakespeare's 

song; 

The birds, but notes of thine imperial own ! 



^ara!) ^tutt at^clean (Dtccne 



THE LAMP 

Hast thou a lamp, a little lamp. 

Put in that hand of thine ? 
And did He say, who gave it thee, 
The world hath need this light should be, 

Now, therefore, let it shine ? 

And dost thou say, with bated breath. 

It is a little flame ; 
I '11 let the lamps of broader wick 
Seek out the lost and cheer the sick. 

While I seek wealth and fame ? 

But on the shore where thy small house 
Stands dark, stands dark, this night, 
Full many a wanderer, thither tossed, 



Is driven on that rock and lost, 
Where thou hast hid thy light. 

Though but a candle thou didst have, 

Its trimmed and glowing ray 
Is infinite. With God, no light 
Is great or small, but only bright, 
As is his perfect day. 

The world hath sorrow, nothing more, 

To give or keep for thee; 
Duty is in that hidden flame. 
And soaring joy: then rise for shame 

That thou so dark shouldst be. 

Rise, trim thy lamp ; the feeble past 
Behind thee put and spurn. 



STOCKARD — MRS. GREENE — URMY 



(535 



With God it is not soon or late, 
So that thy light, now flaming great, 
Doth ever fiercer burn, — 

Fierce with its love, and flaming great 

In its humility; 
Shunning no soul in sinful need, 
Fearing no path where He may lead, 

Glowing consumingly. 

Thou shalt not want for light enough. 

When earthly moons grow dim; 
The dawn is but begun for thee, 
When thou shalt hand, so tremblingly. 
Thy empty lamp to Him. 

DE SHEEPFOL' 

De massa ob de sheepfol', 
Dat guards de sheepfol' bin, 
Look out in de gloomerin' meadows, 
Wha'r de long night rain begin — 
So he call to de hirelin' shepa'd, 
" Is my sheep, is dey all come in ? " 



Oh den, says de hirelin' shepa'd: 
" Dey 's some, dey 's black and thin, 
And some, dey 's po' ol' wedda's; 
But de res', dey 's all brung in. 
But de res', dey 's all brung in." 

Den de massa ob de sheepfol', 

Dat guards de sheepfol' bin. 

Goes down in de gloomerin' mead- 
ows, 

Wha'r de long night rain begin — 

So he le' down de ba's ob de sheep- 
fol', 

Callin' sof, " Come in. Come in." 

Callin' sof, " Come in. Come in." 

Den up t'ro' de gloomerin' meadows, 
T'ro' de col' night rain and win'. 
And up t'ro' de gloomerin' rain-paf , 
Wha'r de sleet fa' pie'cin' thin, 
De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol', 
Dey all comes gadderin' in. 
De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol', 
Dey all comes gadderin' in. 



Clarence armp 



AS I CAME DOWN MOUNT 
TAMALPAIS 

As I came down Mount Tamalpais, 

To north the fair Sonoma Hills 
Lay like a trembling thread of blue 

Beneath a sky of daffodils ; 
Through tules green a silver stream 

Ran south to meet the tranquil bay. 
Whispering a dreamy, tender tale 

Of vales and valleys far away. 

As I came down Mount Tamalpais, 

To south the city brightly shone, 
Touched by the sunset's good-night kiss 

Across the golden ocean blown; 
I saw its hills, its tapering masts, 

I almost heard its tramp and tread. 
And saw against the sky the cross 

Which marks the City of the Dead. 

As I came down Mount Tamalpais 
To east San Pablo's water lay, 

Touched with a holy purple light. 
The benediction of the day; 



No ripple on its twilight tide, 
No parting of its evening veil, 

Save dimly in the far-oif haze 
One dreamy, yellow sunset saU. 

As I came down Mount Tamalpais, 

To west Heaven's gateway opened wide, 
And through it, freighted with day-cares, 

The cloud-ships floated with the tide; 
Then, silently through stilly air, 

Starlight flew down from Paradise, 
Folded her silver wings and slept 

Upon the slopes of Tamalpais. 



BLONDEL 

Within my heart I long have kept 
A little chamber cleanly swept. 
Embroidered with a fleur-de-lis. 
And lintel boughs of redwood-tree; 
A bed, a book, a crucifix, 
Two little copper candlesticks 
With tapers ready for the match 
The moment I his footfall catch, 



636 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



That when in thought he comes to me 
He straightway at his ease may be. 
This guest I love so to allure — 
Blondel, King Richard's Troubadour ! 

He often comes, but sings no more 
(He says his singing days are o'er !); 
Still, sweet of tongue and filled with tales 
Of knights and ladies, bowers and vales, 
He caps our frugal meal with talk 
Of langue d'oil and langue d'oc, 
Of Picardy and Aquitaine, 
Blanche of Castile and Charlemagne, 
Of m^nestrel, trouv^re, conteur, 
Mime, histrion, and old harpeur — 



Small wonder that I love him well, 
King Richard's troubadour, Blondel ! 

Still, as he comes at candle-light 
And goes before the east is bright, 
I have no heart to beg him keep 
Late hour with me when wooed by sleep; 
But one request I ever make. 
And ever no for answer take : 
He will not make the secret mine. 
What song he sang at Diirrenstein ! 
Sleep, troubadour ! Enough that thou 
With that sweet lay didst keep thy vow 
And link thy name by deathless art 
With Richard of the Lion Heart ! 



^u^an ^att ^paltrinj 



A SONG'S WORTH 

I MADE a song for my dear love's delight ; 
I wrought with all sweet words my heart 

could lend 
To longing lips, and thrilled with joy to 

send 
The message only love could read aright. 
He came; and while I trembled in his 

sight, 
He kissed my hands and said, " To what 

sweet end. 
Unknowing, hast thou wrought, O gentle 

friend ? 
Singing thy song, I learned to woo, despite 
My loved one's frown; and now she is my 

own." 
Blessing me then, he went his happy way. 
The whole world sings my song, and I alone 
Am silent; yet through tears I sometimes 

say, 
" To which of us doth greater joy belong ? 
He hath his love ; but I — I have my song." 



THE SEA'S SPELL 

Beneath thy spell, O radiant summer 

sea, — 
Lulled by thy voice, rocked on thy shining 

breast. 
Fanned by thy soft breath, by thy touch 

caressed, — 
Let all thy treacheries forgotten be. 



Let me still dream the ships I gave to thee 
All golden-freighted in fair harbors rest; 
Let me believe each sparkling wave's white 

crest 
Bears from thy depths my loved and lost 

to me. 
Let me not heed thy wrecks, nor count thy 

slain. 
As o'er-fond lovers for love's sake forget 
Their dearest wrongs, so I, with eyes still 

wet 
With thy salt tears, with heart still, wrung 

with pain. 
Back to thy fierce, sweet beauty turn again, 
And though thou wreck me, will I love 

thee yet ! 

FATE 

Two shall be born the whole wide world 

apart ; 
And speak in different tongues, and have 

no thought 
Each of the other's being, and no heed; 
And these o'er unknown seas to unknown 

■ lands 
Shall cross, escaping wreck, defying death, 
And all unconsciously shape every act 
And bend each wandering step to this one 

end, — 
That, one day, out of darkness, they shall 

meet 
And read life's meaning in each other's 

eyes. 



SUSAN MARK SPALDING — ROBERT BRIDGES 



637 



And two shall walk some narrow way of 

life 
So nearly side by side, that should one 

turn 
Ever so little space to left or right 
They needs must stand acknowledged face 

to face. 



And yet, with wistful eyes that never 

meet. 
With groping hands that never clasp, and 

lips 
Calling in vain to ears that never hear, 
They seek each other all their weary days 
And die unsatisfied — and this is Fate ! 



"THE UNILLUMINED VERGE" 



They tell you that Death 's at the turn of 
the road. 
That under the shade of a cypress you '11 
■ And him, 
And, struggling on wearily, lashed by the 
goad 
Of pain, you will enter the black mist 
behind him. 

I can walk with you up to the ridge of the 
hill. 
And we '11 talk of the way we have come 
through the valley; 
Down below there a bird breaks into a 
trill, 
And a groaning slave bends to the oar of 
his galley. 

You are up on the heights now, you pity 
the slave — 
" Poor soul, how fate lashes him on at 
his rowing ! 
Yet it 's joyful to live, and it 's hard to be 
brave 
When you watch the sun sink and the 
daylight is going." 

We are almost there — our last walk on 
this height — 
I must bid you good-by at that cross on 
the mountain. 
See the sun glowing red, and the pulsating 
light 
Fill the valley, and rise like the flood in 
a fountain ! 

And it shines in your face and illumines 
your soul; 
We are comrades as ever, right here at 
your going; 



You may rest if you will within sight of 
the goal. 
While I must return to my oar and the 
rowing. 

We must part now ? Well, here is the 
hand of a friend; 
I will keep you in sight till the road 
makes its turning 
Just over the ridge within reach of the end 
Of your arduous toil, — the beginning of 
learning. 

You will call to me once from the mist, on 
the verge, 
" Au revoir ! " and " Good night ! " while 
the twilight is creeping 
Up luminous peaks, and the pale stars 
emerge ? 
Yes, I hear your faint voice: "This is 
rest, and like sleeping ! " 

JAMES McCOSH 

Young to the end through sympathy with 

youth, 
Gray mau of learning, — champion of truth ! 
Direct in rugged speech, alert in mind, 
He felt his kinship with all humankind, 
And never feared to trace development 
Of high from low, — assured and full con- 
tent 
That man paid homage to the Mind above. 
Uplifted by the " Royal Law of Love." 

The laws of nature that he loved to trace 
Have worked, at last, to veil from us his face ; 
The dear old elms and ivy-covered walls 
Will miss his presence, and the stately halls 
His trumpet voice. And in their joys 
Sorrow will shadow those he called " my 
boys " ! , 



638 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Jl^iniam Einti^cp 



EN GARDE, MESSIEURS 

En garde, Messieurs, too long have I en- 
dured. 

Too long with patience borne the world's 
rebuff; 

Now he who shoulders me shall find me 
rough; 

The weakness of an easy soul is cured. 

I 've shouted, leathern-lunged, when fame 

or gold 
Were won by others, turned to aid my 

friend; — 
DuU-pated ever, — but such follies end; 
Only a fool 's content, and in the cold. 

My doublet is in tatters, and my purse 
Waves in the wind, light as my lady's fan ; 
Only my sword is bright; with it I plan 
To win success, or put my sword to nurse. 

I wait no longer for the primal blow; 
Henceforth my stroke is first, I give offense ; 
I claim no more an over-dainty sense, 
I brook no blocking where I plan to go. 

En garde, Messieurs ! and if my hand is 

haj-d. 
Remember I 've been buffeted at will; 



I am a whit impatient, and 'tis ill 

To cross a hungry dog. Messieurs, en garde. 

THE HUNDRED-YARD DASH 

Give me a race that is run in a breath. 
Straight from the start to the " tape ; " 

Distance hath charms, but a " Ding Dong " 
means death. 
Death without flowers and crape. 

" On your mark," " Set," — for a moment 
we strain. 

Held by a leash all unseen; 
" P'ff," we are off, from the pistol "'G gain 

Yards, if the starter 's not keen. 

Off like lean greyhounds, the cinders scarce 
stir 
Under the touch of our feet; 
Flashes of sunlight, the crowd's muffled 
purr, 
The rush of the wind, warm and sweet. 

One last fierce effort; the red worsted 
breaks. 

Struggle and strain are all past; 
Only ten ticks of the watch, but it makes 

First, second, third, and the last. 



Horace %, €tmhtl 



I SERVED IN A GREAT CAUSE 

I SERVED in a great cause: 

Long had I doubted the call I heard, wan- 
toning the seasons dead; 

The opportune days were deserts, the sun- 
light fell on a waste. 

But the dawn brought me face to face with 
itself, with the opening flowers: 

I looked upon my sea casting its wrecks 
down the shore in the storm. 

The wrecks, my useless volitions, disor- 
dered, missent, ill-protected, to the 
deep. 

The resurrected programme of self veined 
red with the blood of my birth, 



The futile hours past, the distrusted images 
recalled. 

In tumult of desire, in quietude of achieve- 
ment, in effacement of unbelief. 

I served the great cause, the great cause 
served me; 

There were never any debts between us, 
the compact was without obliga- 
tion ; 

I answered its cry, it answered my 
cry; 

The seed in the ground hungered for light, 
the light pierced the earth with un- 
erring love — 

We met, we ran together, appointed mates. 



LINDSEY — TR AUBEL - 


-MRS. DANDRIDGE 639 


I served not as one who follows or one who 


You still must not be persuaded to capitu- 


leads; 


lation; you will remember that the 


I served not in abasement, on my knees, 


road runs east as well as west. 


with my head in the dust; 




I served proudlj'^, accepted, accepting, 




The cloudland phantoms never misting the 


EPICEDIUM 


prospect, 




The sunshine sirens never dazing the day 


Like to the leaf that falls. 


with their splendor. 


Like to the rose that fades, 


Ever in my heart crowding ancient and 


Thou art — and still art not ! 


unborn dreams, 


We whom this thought enthralls, 


Cresting the hills and making the valleys 


We whom this mystety shades, 


fertile. 


Are bared before our lot ! 


I served in a great cause : 


Like to the light gone out. 


I served without heroism, without virtue, 


Like to the sun gone down. 


with no promises of success, with no 


Thou art — and ye't we feel 


near destination of treasure; 


That something more than doubt, 


I was on the march, I contained that which 


And more than Nature's frown, 


persevered me to ends unseen, no 


The Great Good must reveal. 


footsore night relaxed my pace ; 




There was only the press of invisible hands. 


'T is not with thankless heart, 


only gray-brown eyes of invitation. 


Nor yet with covert hand, 


Only my franchised heart to fuel the fires 


We reach from deeps to thee: 


to suns. 


We take our grief apart. 




And with it bravely stand 


IF ALL THE VOICES OF MEN 


Beside the voiceless sea ! 


If all the voices of men called out warning 


0, gentle memory mine — 


you, and you could not join your 


I fill the world with thee. 


voice with their voices. 


And with thy blessing sleep ! 


If all the faces of men were turned one 


But for thy love divine 


way and you met them face to face, 


To warm the day for me, 


you going another, — 


Why should I wake or weep ? 



E^aiijSffec E^antiiritige 



THE DEAD MOON 

We are ghost-ridden: 

Through the deep night 
Wanders a spirit, 
Noiseless and white; 
Loiters not, lingers not, knoweth not rest. 
Ceaselessly haunting the East and the 
West. 

She, whose undoing the ages have wrought. 
Moves on to the time of God's rhythmical 

thought. 
In the dark, swinging sea, 

As she speedeth through space, 



She reads her pale image ; 

The wounds are agape on her face. 
She sees her grim nakedness 

Pierced by the eyes 
Of the Spirits of God 

In their flight through, the skies. 
(Her wounds, — they are many and hol- 
low.) 
The Earth turns and wjieels as she flies. 
And this Spectre, this Ancient, must follow. 

When, in the feons. 

Had she beginning ? 
What is her story ? 

What was her sinning ? 



G40 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Do the ranks of the Holy Ones 


We dart through the void; 


Know of her crime ? 


We have cries, we have laughter; 


Does it loom in the mists 


The phantom that haunts us 


Of the birthplace of Time ? 


Comes silently after. 


The stars, do they speak of her 


This Ghost-lady follows, 


Under their breath, 


Though none hear her tread; 


" Will this Wraith be forever 


On, on, we are flying. 


Thus restless in death ? " 


Still tracked by our Dead — 


On, through immensity, 


By this white, awful Mystery, 


Sliding and stealing, 


Haggard and dead. 


On, through infinity, 




Nothing revealing ? 






THE SPIRIT OF THE FALL 


I see the fond lovers: 




They walk in her light; 


Come, on thy swaying feet, 


They charge the " soft maiden " 


Wild Spirit of the Fall ! ' 


To bless their love-plight. 


With wind-blown skirts, loose hair of russet- 


Does she laugh in her place, 


brown. 


As she glideth through space ? 


Crowned with bright berries of the bitter- 


Does she laugh in her orbit with never a 


sweet. 


sound ? 




That to her, a dead body. 


Trip a light measure with the hurrying 


With nothing but rents in her round — 


leaf. 


Blighted and marred, 


Straining thy few late roses to thy breast, 


Wrinkled and scarred. 


With laughter over-gay, sweet eyes drooped 


Barren and cold, 


down. 


Wizened and old — 


That none may guess thy grief. 


That to her should be told, 


Dare not to pause for rest 


That to her should be sung 


Lest the slow tears should gather to their 


The yearning and burning of them that are 


fall. 


young ? 






But when the cold moon rises o'er the hill. 


Our Earth that is young. 


The last numb crickets cease, and all is 


That is throbbing with life, 


still, 


Has fiery upheavals. 


Face down thou liest on the frosty ground 


Has boisterous strife ; 


Strewed with thy fortune's wreck, alas. 


But she that is dead has no stir, breathes 


thine all — 


no air; 
She is calm, she is voiceless, in lonely de- 


There, on a winter dawn, thy corse I found, 


. spair. 


Lone Spirit of the Fall. 



tBilliam i^o^coc €l[)apct 



("PAUL HERMES") 



THE LAST HUNT 



Oh, it 's twenty gallant gentlemen 

Rode out to hunt the deer, 
With mirth upon the silver horn 

And gleam upon the spear; 
They galloped through the meadow- 
grass. 

They sought the forest's gloom. 



And loudest rang Sir Morven's laugh. 
And lightest tost his plume. 

There 's no delight by day or night 

Like hunting in the morn; 

So busk ye, gallant gentlemen, 

And sound the silver horn ! 

They rode into the dark greenwood 
By ferny dell and glade. 



WILLIAM ROSCOE THAYER 



641 



And now and then upon their cloaks 

The yellow sunshine played; 
They heard the timid forest-birds 

Break off amid their glee, 
They saw the startled leveret, 
But not a stag did see. 

Wind, wind the horn, on summermorn ! 

Though ne'er a buck appear. 
There 's health for horse and gentle- 
man 
A-huuting of the deer ! 

They panted up Ben Lomond's side 

Where thick the leafage grew. 
And when they bent the branches back 

The sunbeams darted through; 
Sir Morven in his saddle turned, 

And to his comrades spake, 
" Now quiet ! we shall find a stag 
Beside the Brownies' Lake." 

Then sound not on the bugle-horn. 

Bend bush and do not break, 
Lest ye should start the timid hart 
A-drinking at the lake. 

Now they have reached the Brownies' 
Lake, — 
A blue eye in the wood, — 
And on its brink a moment's space 

All motionless they stood: 
When, suddenly, the silence broke 

With fifty bowstrings' twang. 
And hurtling through the drowsy air 
Full fifty arrows sang. 

Ah, better for those gentlemen. 
Than horn and slender spear. 
Were morion and buckler true, 
A-hunting of the deer. 

Not one of that brave company 

Shall hunt the deer again; 
Some fell beside the Brownies' Pool, 

Some dropt in dell or glen; 
An arrow pierced Sir Morven's breast. 

His horse plunged in the lake. 
And swimming to the farther bank 
He left a bloody wake. 

Ah, what avails the silver horn. 
And what the slender spear ? 
There 's other quarry in the wood 
Beside the fallow deer ! 

O'er ridge and hollow sped the horse 
Besprent with blood and foam. 

Nor slackened pace until at eve 
He brought his master home. 



How tenderly the Lady Ruth 

The cruel dart withdrew ! 
" False Tirrell shot the bolt," she said, 
" That my Sir Morven slew ! " 
Deep in the forest lurks the foe. 
While gayly shines the morn: 
Hang up the broken spear, and blow 
A dirge upon the horn. 



MAN IN NATURE 

Climbing up the hillside beneath the sum- 
mer stars 
I listen to the murmur of the drowsy 
ebbing sea; 
The newly-risen moon has loosed her silver 
zone 
On the undulating waters where the 
ships are sailing free. 

moon, and O stars, and O drowsy sum- 

mer sea 
Drawing thy tide from the city up the 
bay, 

1 know how you will look and what your 

bounds must be. 
When we and our sous have forever 
passed away. 



Shall walk beneath the stars and wander 

by the shore; 
I cannot guess their glory, but I think the 

sky and sea 
Will bring to them more gladness than 

they brought to us of yore. 



THE VIOLIN'S COMPLAINT 

Honest Stradivari made me: 
With the gift of love he blest me; 
Once, delight, a master played me. 
Love awoke when he caressed me ! 

Oh the deep, ecstatic burning ! 
Oh the secrets low and tender ! 
Oh the passion and the yearning 
At our love's complete surrender ! 

Heartless men, so long to hide me 
With the costly toys you cherish; 
I 'm a soul — again confide me 
To a lover, ere I perish ! 



642 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



^elcn 4Brap Cone 



THE RIDE TO THE LADY 

" Now since mine even is come at last, — 

For I have been the sport of steel, 

And hot life ebbeth from me fast. 

And I in saddle roll and reel, — 

Come bind me, bind me on my steed ! 

Of fingering leech I have no need ! " 

The chaplain clasped his mailed knee. 

" Nor need I more thy whine and thee ! 

No time is left my sins to tell; 

But look ye bind me, bind me well ! " 

They bound him strong with leathern 

thong, 
For the ride to the lady should be long. 

Day was dying; the poplars fled. 

Thin as ghosts, on a sky blood-red; 

Out of the sky the fierce hue fell. 

And made the streams as the streams of 

hell. 
All his thoughts as a river flowed, 
Flowed aflame as fleet he rode. 
Onward flowed to her abode. 
Ceased at her feet, mirrored her face. 
(Viewless Death apace, apace. 
Rode behind him in that race.) 

" Face, mine own, mine alone. 
Trembling lips my lips have known, 
Birdlike stir of the dove-soft eyne 
Under the kisses that make them mine ! 
Only of thee, of thee, my need ! 
Only to thee, to thee, I speed ! " 
The Cross flashed by at the highway's turn; 
In a beam of the moon the Face shone 
stern. 

Far behind had the fight's din died; 
The shuddering stars in the welkin wide 
Crowded, crowded, to see him ride. 
The beating hearts of the stars aloof 
Kept time to the beat of the horse's hoof. 
"What is the throb that thrills so sweet ? 
Heart of my lady, I feel it beat ! " 
But his own strong pulse the fainter fell, 
Like the failing tongue of a hushing bell. 
The flank of the great-limbed steed was wet 
Not alone with the started sweat. 

Fast, and fast, and the thick black wood 
Arched its cowl like a black friar's hood; 



Fast, and fast, and they plunged therein, -^ 
But the viewless rider rode to win. 

Out of the wood to the highway's light 
Galloped the great-limbed steed in fright; 
The mail clashed cold, and the sad owl 

cried. 
And the weight of the dead oppressed his 

side. 

Fast, and fast, by the road he knew; 
And slow, and slow, the stars withdrew; 
And the waiting heaven turned weirdly 

blue, 
As a garment worn of a wizard grim. 
He neighed at the gate in the morning 

dim. 

She heard no sound before her gate, 
Though very quiet was her bower. 
All was as her hand had left it late: 
The needle slept on the broidered vine, 
Where the hammer and spikes of the pas- 
sion-flower 
Her fashioning did wait. 
On the couch lay something fair. 
With steadfast lips and veiled eyne; 
But the la,dy was not there. 
On the wings of shrift and prayer. 
Pure as winds that winnow snow, 
Her soul had risen twelve hours ago. 
The burdened steed at the barred gate 

stood. 
No whit the nearer to his goal. 
Now God's great grace assoil the soul 
That went out in the wood ! 



ARRAIGNMENT 

" Not ye who have stoned, not ye who 

have smitten us," cry 
The sad, great souls, as they go out 

hence into dark, — 
" Not ye we accuse, though for you was 

our passion borne; 
And ye we reproach not, who silently passed 

us by. 
We forgive blind eyes and the ears that 

would not hark. 
The careless and causeless hate and the 

shallow scorn. 



HELEN GRAY CONE 



643 



"But ye, who have seemed to know us, 

have seen and heard; 
Who have set us at feasts and have 

crowned with the costly rose ; 
Who have spread us the purple of praises 

beneath our feet; 
Yet guessed not the word that we spake 

was a living word, 
Applauding the sound, — we account you 

as worse than foes ! ' 
We sobbed you our message: ye said, ' It 

is song, and sweet ! ' " 



THISBE 

The garden within was shaded, 
And guarded about from sight; 

The fragrance flowed to the south wind, 
The fountain leaped to the light. 

And the street without was narrow, 
And dusty, and hot, and mean; 

But the bush that bore white roses, 
She leaned to the fence between: 

And softly she sought a crevice 
In that barrier blank and tall. 

And shyly she thrust out through it 
Her loveliest bud of all. 

And tender to touch, and gracious, 
And pure as the moon's pure shine. 

The full rose paled and was perfect, — 
For whose eyes, for whose lips, but mine ! 



THE CONTRAST 

He loved her, having felt his love begin 

With that first look, — as lover oft avers. 

He made pale flowers his pleading min- 
isters. 

Impressed sweet music, drew the spring- 
time in 

To serve his suit; but when he could not 
win. 

Forgot her face and those gray eyes of hers ; 

And at her name his pulse no longer stirs, 

And life goes on as though she had not been. 

She never loved him; but she loved Love 
so. 

So reverenced Love, that all her being 
shook 

At his demand whose entrance she denied. 



Her thoughts of him such tender color took 
As western skies that keep the afterglow. 
The words he spoke were with her till she 
died. 



THE LAST CUP OF CANARY 

SIR HARRY LOVELOCK, 1 645 

So, the powder 's low, and the larder 's 
clean. 
And surrender drapes, with its blacks 
impending, 
All the stage for a sorry and sullen scene : 
Yet indulge me my whim of a madcap 
ending ! 

Let us once more fill, ere the final chill, 
Every vein with the glow of the rich 
canary ! 
Since the sweet hot liquor of life 's to spill, 
Of the last of the cellar what boots be 
chary ? 

Then hear the conclusion: I'll yield my 
breath, 
But my leal old house and my good blade 
never ! 
Better one bitter kiss on the lips of Death 
Than despoiled Defeat as a wife forever ! 

Let the faithful fire hold the walls in ward 
Till the roof-tree crash ! Be the smoke 
once riven 
While we flash from the gate like a single 
sword. 
True steel to the hilt, though in dull earth 
driven ! 

Do you frown, Sir Richard, above your ruff. 
In the Holbein yonder ? My deed en- 
sures you ! 
For the flame like a fencer shall give 
rebuff 
To your blades that blunder, you Round- 
head boors, you ! 

And my ladies, a-row on the gallery wall, 
Not a sing-song sergeant or corporal 
sainted 
Shall pierce their breasts with his Puritan 
ball, 
To annul the charms of the flesh, though 
painted ! 



644 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



I have worti like a jewel the life they gave; 

As the ring in mine ear I can lightly 
lose it. 
If mydays be done, why,iny days were brave! 

If the end arrive, I as master choose it ! 

Then fill to the brim, and a health, I say, 
To our liege King Charles, and I pray 
God bless him ! 
'T would amend worse vintage to drink 
dismay 
To the clamorous mongrel pack that 
press him ! 

And a health to the fair women, past recall. 
That like birds astray through the heart's 
hall flitted; 
To the lean devil Failure last of all. 

And the lees in his beard, for a fiend, 
outwitted ! 



THE SPRING BEAUTIES 

The Puritan Spring Beauties stood freshly 

clad for church; 
A Thrush, white-breasted, o'er them sat 

singing on his perch. 
" Happy be ! for fair are ye ! " the gentle 

singer told them. 
But presently a buff-coat Bee came booming 
up to scold them. 
" Vanity, oh, vanity ! 
Young maids, beware of vanity ! " 
Grumbled out the bu£E-coat Bee, 
Half parson-like, half soldierly. 

The sweet-faced maidens trembled, with 

pretty, pinky blushes. 
Convinced that it was wicked, to listen to 

the Thrushes; 
And when, that shady afternoon, I chanced 

that way to pass. 
They hung their little bonnets down and 
looked into the grass. 
All because the buff-coat Bee 
Lectured them so solemnly : — 
" Vanity, oh, vanity ! 
Young maids, beware of vanity ! " 



FAIR ENGLAND 

White England shouldering from the sea, 
Green England in thy rainy veil, 



Old island-nest of Liberty 
And loveliest Song, all hail ! 

God guard thee long from scatb and 
grief ! 

Not any wish of ours would mar 
One richly glooming ivy-leaf, 

One rosy daisy-star. 

What ! phantoms are we, spectre-thin, 
Unfathered, out of nothing born ? 

Did. Being in this world begin 
With blaze of yestermorn ? 

Nay ! sacred Life, a scarlet thread. 

Through lost unnumbered lives has 
run; 

No strength can tear us from the dead; 
The sire is in the son. 

Nay ! through the years God's purpose 
glides. 

And links in sequence deed with deed; 
Hoar Time along his chaplet slides 

Bead after jewel-bead. 

O brother, breathing English air ! 

If both be just, if both be free, 
A lordlier heritage we share 

Than any earth can be : 

If hearts be high, if hands be pure, 
A bond unseen shall bind us still, — 

The only bond that can endure. 
Being welded with God's will ! 

A bond unseen ! and yet God speed 

The apparent sign, when He finds good ; 

When in His sight it types indeed 
That inward brotherhood. 

For not the rose-and-emerald bow 
Can bid the battling storm to cease, 

But leaps at last, that all may know 
The sign, not source, of peace. 

Oh, what shall shameful peace avail, 
If east or west, if there or here. 

Men sprung of ancient England fail 
To hold their birthright dear ? 

If west or east, if here or there. 

Brute Mammon sit in Freedom's place, 

And judge a wailing world's despair 
With hard, averted face ? 



HELEN GRAY CONE — RICHARD BURTON 



645 



O great Co-heir, whose lot is cast 

Beside the hearthstone loved of yore ! 

Inherit with us that best Past 
That lives for evermore ! 



Inherit with us ! Lo, the days 

Are evil; who may know the end ? 

Strike hands, and dare the darkening ways, 
Twin strengths, with God to friend ! 



iHtcJarti 2B>ut:ton 



THE FIRST SONG 

A POET writ a song of May 

That checked his breath awhile ; 

He kept it for a summer day. 
Then spake with half a smile : 

" Oh, little song of purity. 

Of mystic to-and-fro, 
You are so much a part of me 

I dare not let you go." 

And so he made a sister-song 
With more of cunning art; 

But held the first his whole life long 
Deep hidden in his heart. 



ON A FERRY BOAT 

The river widens to a pathless sea 

Beneath the rain and mist and sullen 

skies. 
Look out the window; 't is a gray em- 
prise. 
This piloting of massed humanity 

On such a day, from shore to busy shore, 
And breeds the thought that beauty is 



But see yon woman in the cabin seat. 
The Southland in her face and foreign 

dress ; 
She bends above a babe, with tenderness 
That mothers use; her mouth grows soft 
and sweet. 
Then, lifting eyes, ye saints in heaven, 

what pain 
In that strange look of hers into the rain ! 

There lies a vivid band of scarlet red 
With careless grace across her raven 

hair; 
Her cheek burns brown; and 'tis her 

way to wear 



A gown where colors stand in satin's stead. 
Her eye gleams dark as any you may 

see 
Along the winding roads of Italy. 

What dreamings must be hers of sunny 
climes. 
This beggar woman midst the draggled 

throng ! 
How must she pine for solaces of song, 
For warmth and love to furnish laughing- 
times ! 
Her every glance upon the waters gray 
Is piteous with some lost yesterday. 

I've seen a dove, storm-beaten, far at 

sea; 
And once a flower growing stark alone 
From out a rock ; I 've heard a hound 

make moan. 
Left masterless: but never came to me 
Ere this such sense of creatures torn 

apart 
From all that fondles life and feeds the 

heart. 



BLACK SHEEP 

From their folded mates they wander 
far. 

Their ways seem harsh and wild : 
They follow the beck of a baleful star. 

Their paths are dream-beguiled. 

Yet haply they sought but a wider range, 

Some loftier mountain slope. 
And little recked of the country strange 

Beyond the gates of hope. 

And haply a bell with a luring call 
Summoned their feet to tread 

Midst the cruel rocks, where the deep pit- 
fall 
And the lurking snare are spread. 



646 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Maybe, in spite of their tameless days 

Of outcast liberty, 
They 're sick at heart for the homely 
ways 

Where their guttered brothers be. 

And oft at night, when the plains fall 
dark 

And the hills loom large and dim, 
For the shepherd's voice they mutely hark, 

And their souls go out to him. 

Meanwhile, " Black sheep ! black sheep ! " 
we cry. 

Safe in the inner fold; 
And maybe they hear, and wonder why, 

And marvel, out in the cold. 



THE FOREFATHER 

Here at the country inn, 

I lie in my quiet bed. 
And the ardent onrush of armies 

Throbs and throbs in my head. 

Why, in this calm, sweet place. 
Where only silence is heard. 

Am I ware of the crash of conflict, — 
Is my blood to battle stirred ? 

Without, the night is blessed 

With the smell of pines, with stars; 

Within, is the mood of slumber, 
The healing of daytime scars. 

'T is strange, — yet I am thrall 

To epic agonies; 
The tumult of myriads dying 

Is borne to me on the breeze. 

Mayhap in the long ago 

My forefather grim and stark 

Stood in some hell of carnage, 
Faced forward, fell in the dark; 

And I, who have always known 
Peace with her dove-like ways, 

Am gripped by his martial spirit 
Here in the after days. 

I cannot rightly tell: 

I lie, from all stress apart, 

And the ardent onrush of armies 
Surges hot through my heart. 



" EXTRAS » 

The crocuses in the Square 

Lend a winsome touch to the May; 
The clouds are vanished away, 

The weather is bland and fair; 

Now peace seems everywhere. 
Hark to the raucous, sullen cries: 
" Extra ! extra ! " — tersely flies 
The news, and a great hope mounts, or 
dies. 

About the bulletin-boards 

Dark knots of people surge; 

Strained faces show, then merge 
In the inconspicuous hordes 
That yet are the Nation's lords. 

" Extra ! extra ! Big fight at sea ! " 

Was the luck with us ? Is it victory ? 

Dear God, they died for you and me ! 

Meanwhile the crocuses down the street 
With heaven's own patience are calm and 
sweet. 



LOVE IS STRONG 

A VIEWLESS thing is the wind. 
But its strength is mightier far 

Thau a phalanxed host in battle line, 
Than the limbs of a Samson are. 

And a viewless thing is Love, 

And a name that vanisheth; 
But her strength is the wind's wild strength 
above, 

For she conquers shame and Death. 



AN UNPRAISED PICTURE 

I SAW a picture once by Angelo. 

" Unfinished," said the critic ; " done in 

youth ; " 
And that was all, no thought of praise, 

forsooth ! 
He was informed, and doubtless it was so. 
And yet, I let an hour of dreaming go 
The way of all time, touched to tears and 

ruth. 
Passion and joy, the prick of conscience' 

tooth. 
Before that careworn Christ's divine, soft 

glow. 



RICHARD BURTON — KATHARINE LEE BATES 



647 



The painter's yearning with an - unsure 
hand 

Had moved me more than might his master 
days; 

He seemed to speak like one whose Mecca- 
land 

Is first beheld, though faint and far the 
ways; 

Who may not then his shaken voice com- 
mand, 

Yet trembles forth a word of prayer and 
praise. 



THE POLAR QUEST 

Unconquerably, men venture on the 
quest 
And seek an ocean amplitude unsailed. 
Cold, virgin, awful. Scorning ease and 
rest. 
And heedless of the heroes who have 
failed, 
They face the ice floes with a dauntless 
zest. 

The polar quest ! Life's offer to the 
strong ! 
To pass beyond the pale, to do and 
dare, 



Leaving a name that stirs us like a song. 
And making captive some strange Other- 
where, 

Though grim the conquest, and the labor 
long. 

Forever courage kindles, faith moves forth 
To find the mystic fioodway of the North. 



IN SLEEP 

Not drowsihood and dreams and mere 

idless, 
Nor yet the blessedness of strength re- 
gained. 
Alone are in what men call sleep. The 

past, 
My unsuspected soul, my parents' voice, 
The generations of my forbears, yea. 
The very will of God himself are there 
And potent- working: so that many a doubt 
Is wiped away at daylight, many a soil 
Washed cleanlier, many a puzzle riddled 

plain. 
Strong, silent forces push my puny self 
Towards unguessed issues, and the waking 

man 
Rises a Greatheart where a Slave lay 
down. 



Jiatjjarmc Ice 55ate^ 



ROBIN'S SECRET 

'TiS the blithest, bonniest weather for a 
bird to flirt a feather. 
For a bird to trill and warble, all his 
wee red breast a-swell. 
I 've a secret. You may listen till your 
blue eyes dance and glisten, 
Little maiden, but I '11 never, never, 
never, never tell. 

You '11 find no more wary piper, till the 
strawberries wax riper 
In December than in June — aha ! all up 
and down the dell. 
Where my nest is set, for certain, with a 
pink and snowy curtain. 
East or west, but which I '11 never, never, 
never, never tell. 



You may prick me with a thistle, if you 
ever hear me whistle 
How my brooding mate, whose weariness 
my carols sweet dispel. 
All between the clouds and clover, apple- 
blossoms drooping over, 
Twitters low that I must never, never, 
never, never tell. 

Oh, I swear no closer fellow stains his bill 
in cherries mellow. 
Tra la la ! and tirra lirra ! I 'm the 
jauntiest sentinel, 
Perched beside my jewel-casket, where lie 
hidden — don't you ask it, 
For of those three eggs I '11 never, never, 
never, never tell. 



648 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Chirp ! chirp ! chirp ! alack ! for pity ! Who 


Before the White Host harm her, 


hath marred my merry ditty ? 


We'll hurry to her aid ; 


Who hath stirred the scented petals, peep- 


We '11 don our elfin armor, 


ing in where robins dwell ? 


And every tiny blade 


Oh, my mate ! May Heaven defend her ! 


Shall bear atop a dewy drop. 


Little maidens' hearts are tender, 


The life-blood of the frost. 


And I never, never, never, never, never 


Till from their king the order ring: 


meant to tell. 


"Fall back ! the day is lost." 




Now shame to knighthood, brothers ! 


A SONG OF RICHES 


Must Summer plead in vain ? 




And shall I wait till others 


■ What will you give to a barefoot lass. 


My crown of sunshine gain ? 


Morning with breath like wiue ? 


Alone this day I '11 dare the fray, 


Wade, hare feet ! In my wide morass 


Alone the victory win; 


Starry marigolds shine. 


In me my queen shall find, I ween, 




A sturdy paladin. 


Alms, sweet Noon, for a barefoot lass. 




With her laughing looks aglow ! 


To battle ! Ho ! King Winter 


Run, hare feet ! In my fragrant grass 


Hath rushed on me apace, — 


Golden buttercups blow. 


My fragile blade doth splinter 




Beneath his icy mace. 


Gift, a gift for a barefoot lass, 


I stagger back. I yield — alack ! 


twilight hour of dreams ! 


I fall. My senses pass. 


Rest, hare feet, by my lake of glass. 


Woe worth the chance for doughtiest lance 


Where the mirrored sunset gleams. 


Of all the House of Grass ! 


Homeward the weary merchants pass. 


Last hope my heart gives over. 


With the gold bedimmed by care. 


But hark ! a shout of cheer ! 


Little they wis that the barefoot lass 


Don Daisy and Count Clover, 


Is the only millionaire. 


Sir Buttercup, are here ! 




Behold ! behold ! with shield of gold 




Prince Dandelion comes. 


THE LITTLE KNIGHT IN 


Lord Bumble-Bee beats valiantly 


GREEN 


His rolling battle-drums. 


What fragrant-footed comer 


My brothers leave their slumbers 


Is stepping o'er my head ? 


And lead the van of war; 


Behold, my queen ! the Summer ! 


Before our swelling numbers 


Who deems her warriors dead. 


The foes are driven far. 


Now rise, ye knights of many fights, 


The day 's our own ; but, overthrown, 


From out your sleep profound ! 


A little Knight in green, 


Make sharp your spears, my gallant peers, 


I kiss her feet and deem it sweet 


And prick the frozen ground. 


To perish for my queen. 



oBcorgc ^dkto 



ON A CAST FROM AN ANTIQUE 

Headless, without an arm, a figure leans 
By something vaguely Greek, — a fount, 
an urn; 



Dim stairs climb past her where one's 

thoughts discern 
A temple or a palace. Some great queen's 
Daughter art thou ? or humbly one of 

those 



GEORGE PELLEW — ROBERT MOWRY BELL 



649 



Who serve a queen ? Is this the sacred thing 
That holds thy child, thy husband, or thy 

king? 
Or lightly-laughing water ? No one knows. 
A woman once, now merely womanhood, 
In gentle pose of un-self conscious dream 
That consecrates all ministry of love. 
Gone are thy temples and the gods thereof. 
But through the ruin of centuries sublime 
Heart speaks to heart, and still is under- 
stood. 

DEATH 

Calm Death, God of crossed hands and 

passionless eyes. 
Thou God that never heedest gift nor 

prayer, 



Men blindly call thee cruel, unaware 

That everything is dearer since it dies. 

Worn by the chain of years, without sur- 
prise, 

The wise man welcomes thee, and leaves 
the glare 

Of noisy sunshine gladly, and his share 

He chose not in mad life and windy skies. 

Passions and dreams of love, the fever and 
fret 

Of toil, seem vain and petty when we 
gaze 

On the imperious Lords who have no 
breath : 

Atoms or worlds, — we call them lifeless, 
yet 

In thy unending peaceful day of days 

They are divine, all-comprehending Death. 



Clobctt £l9otDrp ^d\ 



THE TUTELAGE! 

In the coiled shell sounds Ocean's distant 

roar. 
Oft to our listening hearts come heavenly 

strains ; — 
Men say, " That was the blood in our own 

veins, 
And this, — but the echo of our hope; no 

more." 
And yet, the murmuring sea exists, which 

bore 
That frail creation o'er its watery plains ; 
And on Time's sands full many a shell 

remains 
■Tossed by Eternity upon its shore. 
Its tongue our hope from Nature's self has 

caught. 
Matter nor force is lost as seons roll. 
And mind ? — Love life conserves and 

death abates, — 
Through the long ages this has nature 

taught. 
Under the stars she plights the wistful soul : 
"Life ruled by Love nor dies nor dissi- 
pates." 



THE SECOND VOLUME 

In the groined alcoves of an ancient 
tower 

Amid a wealth of treasured tomes I 
foiind 

A little book, in choicest vellum bound: 

Therein a romance of such magic power 

It held me rapt through many a tranced 
hour; 

And then, the threads of interest all un- 
wound. 

Abruptly closed. I searched that palace 
round. 

And for its mate still earth's preserves I 
scour. 

Perchance that was the whole ? Then pur- 
poseless 

The pain of conflict, and the bitter 
doubt 

But half resolved ; love in a dire dis- 
tress. 

Deserted, baffled, with its joy left out. 

Could life so end, half told; its school so 
fail? 

Soul, soul, there is a sequel to thy tale I 



* See Biographical Note, p. 779. 



650 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



f ranh SDemjJiStcr .^jjcntian 



ON A GREEK VASE 

Divinely shapen cup, thy lip 
Unto me seemeth thus to speak: 

" Behold in me the workmanship, 
The grace and cunning of a Greek !. 

" Long ages since he mixed the clay, 

Whos6 sense of symmetry was such, 
The labor of a single day 

Immortal grew beneath his touch. 

" For dreaming while his fingers went 
Around this slender neck of mine, 

The form of her he loved was blent 
With every matchless curve and line. 

" Her loveliness to me he gave 
Who gave unto herself his heart, 

That love and beauty from the grave 
Might rise and live again in art." 

And hearing from thy lips this tale 
Of love and skill, of art and grace, 

Thou seem'st to me no more the frail 
Memento of an older race: 

But in thy form divinely wrought 
And figured o'er with fret and scroll, 

I dream, by happy chance was caught, 
And dwelleth now, that maiden's soul. 



TO A ROSE 

Go, Rose, and in her golden hair 
You shall forget the garden soon; 

The sunshine is a captive there 

And crowns her with a constant noon. 

And when your spicy odor goes. 

And fades the beauty of your bloom, 

Think what a lovely hand, O Rose, 
Shall place your body in the tomb ! 



ON SOME BUTTERCUPS 

A LITTLE way below her chin, 

Caught in her bosom's snowy hem. 

Some buttercups are fastened in, — 
Ah, how I envy them ! 



They do not miss their meadow place, 
Nor are they conscious that their skies 

Are not the heavens, but her face. 
Her hair, and mild blue eyes. 

There, in the downy meshes pinned, 
Such sweet illusions haunt their rest; 

They think her breath the fragrant wind, 
And tremble on her breast; 

As if, close to her heart, they heard 

A captive secret slip its cell. 
And with desire were sudden stirred 

To find a voice and tell ! 



THE LIBRARY 

Give me the room whose every nook 

Is dedicated to a book: 

Two windows will suffice for air 

And grant the light admission there, — 

One looking to the south, and one 

To speed the red, departing sun. 

The eastern wall from frieze to plinth 

Shall be the Poet's labyrinth, 

Where one may find the lords of rhyme 

From Homer's down to Dobson's time; 

And at the northern side a space 

Shall show an open chimney-place. 

Set round with ancient tiles that tell 

Some legend old, and weave a spell 

About the firedog-guarded seat. 

Where, musing, one may taste the heat: 

Above, the mantel should not lack 

For curios and bric-k-brac, — 

Not much, but just enough to light 

The room up when the fire is bright. 

The volumes on this wall should be 

All prose and all philosophy. 

From Plato down to those who are 

The dim reflections of that star; 

And these tomes all should serve to show 

How much we write — how little know; 

For since the problem first was set 

No one has ever solved it yet. 

Upon the shelves along the west 

The scientific books shall rest; 

Beside them. History; above, — 

Religion, — hope, and faith, and love: 

Lastly, the southern wall should hold 

The story-tellers, new and old; 



FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN 



651 



Haroun al Raschid, who was truth 


This was the drink of water 


And happiness to all my youth, 


The rose had every day; 


Shall have the honored place of all 


But no one yet has caught her 


That dwell upon the sunny wall; 


While drinking in this way. 


And with him there shall stand a throng 


Surely, it is no treason 


Of those who help mankind along 


To say she drinks so yet. 


More by their fascinating lies 


For that may be the reason 


Than all the learning of the wise. 


Her lips with dew are wet. 


Such be the library; and take 




This motto of a Latin make 


THE SHADOWS 


To grace the door through which I pass: 




Hie habitat Felicitas ! 


All up and down in shadow-town 




The shadow children go; 




In every street you 're sure to meet 


QUATRAINS 


Them running to and fro. 


A QUATRAIN 


They move around without a sound. 




They play at hide-and-seek. 


Hark at the lips of this pink whorl of 


But no one yet that I have met 


shell 


Has ever heard them speak. 


And you shall bear the ocean's surge and 




roar: 


Beneath the tree you often see 


So in the quatrain's measure, written 


Them dancing in and outj 


well, 


And in the sun there 's always one 


A thousand lines shall all be sung in four ! 


To follow you about. 


A HOLLYHOCK 


Go where you will, he follows still. 




Or sometimes runs before, 


Seraglio of the Sultan Bee ! 


And, home at last, you '11 find him fast 


I listen at the waxen door, 


Beside you at the door. 


And hear the zithern's melody 




And sound of dancing on the floor. 


A faithful friend is he to lend 




His presence everywhere; 


MOONRISE 


Blow out the light — to bed at night — 




Your shadow-mate is there ! 


Within this silent palace of the Night, 




See how the moon, like some huge, phan- 


Then he will call the shadows all 


tom moth, 


Into your room to leap, 


Creeps slowly up across the azure cloth 


And such a pack ! they make it black. 


That hangs between the darkness and the 


And fill your eyes with sleep ! 


light. 






AT MIDNIGHT 


THE ROSE'S CUP 






See, yonder, the belfry tower 


Down in a garden olden, — 


That gleams in the moon's pale light; 


Just where, I do not know, — 


Or is it a ghostly flower 


A buttercup all golden 


That dreams in the silent night ? 


Chanced near a rose to grow; 




And every morning early. 


I listen and hear the chime 


Before the birds were up. 


Go quavering o'er the town. 


A tiny dewdrop pearly 


And out of this flower of Time 


Fell in this little cup. 


Twelve petals are wafted down. 



6s2 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



3[o!jn ^M Sjngpm 



GEORGE WASHINGTON 

This was the man God gave us when the 

hour 
Proclaimed the dawn of Liberty begun; 
Who dared a deed, and died when it was 

done 
Patient in triumph, temperate in power, — 
Not striving like the Corsican to tower 
To heaven, nor like great Philip's greater 

son 
To win the world and weep for worlds 

unwon, 
Or lose the star to revel in the flower. 
The lives that serve the eternal verities 
Alone do mould mankind. Pleasure and 

pride 
Sparkle awhile and perish, as the spray 
Smoking across the crests of cavernous 

seas 
Is impotent to hasten or delay 
The everlasting surges of the tide. 



GENESIS 

Did Chaos form, — and water, air, and 
fire, 

Rocks, trees, the worm, work toward Hu- 
manity, — 



That Man at last, beneath the churchyard 

spire. 
Might be once more the worm, the rock, the 

tree? 



A SUMMER SANCTUARY 

I FOUND a yellow flower in the grass, 
A tiny flower with petals like a bell, 

And yet, methought, more than a flower it 
was, — 
More like a miracle. 

Above, the sky was clear, save where at 
times 

Soft-tinted fleeces drifted dreamily, 
Bearing a benison to sunny climes 

From altars of the sea. 

In vestments green the pines about me 
gleamed 

Like priests that tend the sacrificial fire; 
And the faint-lowing cattle almost seemed 

Some far intoning choir. 

It was a place and an occasion meet 

For some high, solemn wonder to befall; 

And, when I saw the flower at my feet, 
I understood it all. 



i^atry Blpman lloopman 



SEA AND SHORE 

Our Mother, loved of all thy sons 
So dear, they die, not dying for thee ; 

Yet are thy fondest, tenderest ones 
Thy wanderers far at sea. 

Life-long the bitter blue they stem. 
Till custom makes it almost fair; 

Sweet grow the splintering gales to them, 
The icy gloom, the scorching glare. 

But thy dear eyes, which shine for all. 
They see not, save through homesick 
tears, 

Or when thy smile, through battle-pall. 
Pays death and all their painful years. 



Fair freedom's gospel soundeth now 
Through softer lips than those of steel; 

Rust gathers on the iron prow, 

And shore weeds clog the resting keel; 

To-day thou askest life, not death; 

Our lives, for life and death, are thine : 
Sweet are long years, and peaceful breath, 

And sunny age beneath its vine ; 

But there are those that deem more fair 
(O Mother, seen at last again !) 

That smile the dying see thee wear, 
Choosing thine own among the slain. 

Yet, being thine, we shall be brave. 
And, being thine, we will be true; 



INGHAM — KOOPMAN — ADAMS 



653 



Where'er thou callest, on field or wave, 
We wait, thy will to do. 



JOHN BROWN 

The sea-bound landsman, looking back to 

shore, 
Now learns what land is highest: — not 

the ring 
Of hills that erewhile shut out everything 
Beyond them from him: these are seen no 

more; 
Nor yet the loftier heights that, from the 

lower, 
He saw far inland, blue, and, worship- 
ping. 
Believed they touched the sky; the gull's 

white wing 
Long since flashed o'er them sunk in the 

sea-floor. 
These were but uplands hiding the true 

height, 
W^hich looms above them as they sink, and 

rears 
Its greatness ever greater on the sight. 
So thou, across the widening sea of years, 
Aye risest great, as on through gloom and 

bright 
Our tossing, bfirk of Progress sunward 

steers. 

ICARUS 

'T IS something from that tangle to have 
won; 

'T is something to have matched the wild- 
bird's flight; 



'T is something to have soared and touched 
the sun. 

What though the lashing billows roar be- 
neath ? 

Better than death in life is life in death : — 
Good night ! 



THE SATIRIST 

Not mine to draw the cloth-yard shaft 

From straining palm to thrilling 
ear; 
Then launch it through the monster's 
hulk, 
One thrust, from front to rear. 

Mine is the Bushman's tiny bow. 

Whose wounds the foeman hardly 
feels ; 

He laughs, and lifts bis hand to smite, 
Then suddenly he reels. 



REVEALED 

Now, on a sudden, I know it, the secret, the 
secret of life. 

Why, the very green of the grass in the 
fields with betrayal is rife ! 

The whirr of the grasshopper by the way- 
side proclaims it to all ; 

'T is unrolled as a scroll to all eyes in the 
curve of the waterfall. 

But, for me, I can only wonder at mortals, 
— the secret out ; 

For they see, hear, taste, smell, feel not 
what Heaven reveals all about. 



<0-^car 5Fap ^Etiani^e? 



AT LINCOLN 



When I went up the minster tower. 
The minster clock rang out the hour; 
The restless organ far below 
Sent tides of music to and fro. 
That rolled through nave and angel 

choir. 
Whose builder knew what lines in- 
spire, 



And filled the lantern's space profound 
With climbing waves of glorious 
sound. 
As I went up the minster tower 
What time the chimes gave forth the 
hour. 

When I stood on the minster tower 
The lark above me sent a shower 

Of happy notes, that filtered through 



SS4 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



The clouds that flecked the sky's soft 

blue, 
And mingled with the nearer tones 
Of jackdaws' calls and stockdoves' 

moans, 
While every breeze that round me 

swirled 
Brought some sweet murmur from the 

world, 
As I stood on the minster tower 
What time the lark forsook her bower. 

When I came down the minster tower, 
Again the chimes proclaimed the hour, 
Again the mighty organ rolled 
Its thunders through the arches old. 
While blended with its note so strong 
Soft rose and fell the evensong. 
And all the earth, it seemed to me, 
Was still by music held in fee. 
As I came down the minster tower 
What time the clock slow chimed the hour. 



ON A GRAVE IN CHRIST- 
CHURCH, HANTS 

Turning from Shelley's sculptured face 

aside. 
And pacing thoughtfully the silent aisles 
Of the gray church that overlooks the smiles 
Of the glad Avon hastening its tide 
To join the seaward- winding Stour, I spied 
Close at my feet a slab among the tiles 
That paved the minster, where the sculp- 
tor's files 
Had graven only " Died of Grief" beside 
The name of her who slept below. Sad 

soul ! 
A century has fled since kindly death 
Cut short that life which nothing knew but 

grief, 
And still your fate stirs pity. Yet the whole 
Wide world is full of graves like yours, 

for breath 
Of sorrow kills as oft as frost the leaf. 



ipamnn ^Sarlanti 



PIONEERS 

They rise to mastery of wind and snow; 
They go like soldiers grimly into strife 
To colonize the plain. They plough and 

sow, 
And fertilize the sod with their own 

life. 
As did the Indian and the buffalo. 

IN THE GRASS 1 

O TO lie in long grasses ! 

O to dream of the plain ! 

Where the west wind sings as it passes 

A weird and unceasing refrain ; 

Where the rank grass wallows and tosses, 

And the plains' ring dazzles the eye; 

Where hardly a silver cloud bosses 

The flashing steel arch of the sky. 

To watch the gay gulls as they flutter 
Like snowflakes and fall down the sky. 
To swoop in the deeps of the hollows, 
Where the crow's-foot tosses awry, 
And gnats in the lee of the thickets 
Are swirling like waltzers in glee 



To the harsh, shrill creak of the crickets, 
And the song of the lark afld the bee. 

O far-off plains of my west land ! 
O lands of winds and the free, 
Swift deer — my mist-clad plain ! 
From my bed in the heart of the forest, 
From the clasp and the girdle of pain 
Your light through my darkness passes; 
To your meadows in dreaming I fly 
To plunge in the deeps of your grasses. 
To bask in the light of your sky ! 

THE MEADOW LARK 

A BRAVE little bird that fears not God, 
A voice that breaks from the snow-wet 

clod 
With prophecy of sunny sod, 
Set thick with wind-waved goldeurod. 

From the first bare clod in the raw, cold 

spring, 
From the last bare clod, when fall winds 

sting. 
The farm-boy hears his brave song ring. 
And work for the time is a pleasant thing. 



1 Copyright, 1899, by The Macmillan Compant. 



HAMLIN GARLAND 



6SS 



THE MASSASAUGA 

A COLD coiled line of mottled lead, 
He lies where grazing cattle tread, 
And lifts a fanged and spiteful liead. 

His touch is deadly, and his eyes 
Are hot with hatred and surprise — 
Death waits and watches where he lies ! 

His hate is turned toward everything ! 

He is the undisputed king 

Of every path and woodland spring. 

His naked fang is raised to smite 
All passing- things; light 
Is not swifter than his bite. 

His touch is deadly, and his eyes 
Are hot with hatred and surprise — 
Death waits and watches where he lies ! 



A TRIBUTE OF GRASSES 

TO W. W. 

Serene, vast head, with silver cloud of 

hair 
Lined on the purple dusk of death, 
A stern medallion, velvet set — 
Old Norseman, throned, not chained upon 

thy chair, 
Thy grasp of hand, thy hearty breath 
Of welcome thrills me yet 
As when I faced thee there ! 

Loving my plain as thou thy sea, 
Facing the East as thou the West, 
I bring a handful of grass to thee, — 
The prairie grasses I know the best; 
Type of the wealth and width of the plain, 
Strong of the strength of the wind and 

sleet. 
Fragrant with sunlight and cool with rain, 
I bring it and lay it low at thy feet, 
Here by the eastern sea. 

A WISHi 

All day and many days I rode. 
My horse's head set toward the sea ; 
And as I rode a longing came to me 
That I might keep the sunset road. 
Riding my horse right on and on, 
O'ertake the day still lagging at the west, 

1 Copyi-ight, 1S90, by The 



And so reach boyhood from the dawn, 
And be with all the days at rest. 

For then the odor of the growing wheat, 
The flare of sumach on the hills. 
The touch of grasses to my feet 
Would cure my brain of all its ills, — 
Would fill my heart so full of joy 
That no stern lines could fret my face. 
There would I be forever boy, 
Lit by the sky's unfailing grace. 

THE GIFT OF WATERS 

"Is water nigh?" 

The plainsmen cry. 
As they meet and pass in the desert grass. 

With finger tip 

Across the lip 
I ask the sombre Navajo. 
The brown man smiles and answers " Sho ! " 
With fingers high, he signs the miles 

To the desert spring, 
And so we pass in the dry dead grass. 
Brothers in bond of the water's ring. 

THE UTE LOVER 1 

Beneath the burning brazen sky, 

The yellowed tepees stand. 

Not far away a singing river 

Sets through the sand. 

Within the shadow of a lonely elm tree 

The tired ponies keep. 

The wild land, throbbing with the sun's 

hot magic, 
Is rapt as sleep. 

From out a clump of scanty willows 

A low wail floats, — 

The endless repetition of a lover's 

Melancholy notes. 

So sad, so sweet, so elemental, 

All lovers' pain 

Seems borne upon its sobbing cadence, — 

The love-song of the plain. 

From frenzied cry forever falling. 

To the wind's wild moan. 

It seems the voice of anguish calling 

Alone ! alone ! 

Caught from the winds forever moaning 
On the plain, 

Wrought from the agonies of woman 
In maternal pain, 

Macmillan Company. 



6s6 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



It holds within its simple measure 
All death of joy, 

Breathed though it be by smiling maiden 
Or lithe brown boy. 

It hath this magic, sad though its cadence 

And short refrain — 

It helps the exiled people of the mountain 

Endure the plain; 

For when at night the stars a-glitter 

Defy the moon, 

The maiden listens, leans to seek her lover 

Where waters croon. 

Flute on, O lithe and tuneful Utah, — 

Reply, brown jade; 

There are no other joys secure to either 

Man or maid. 

Soon you are old and heavy-hearted, 

Lost to mirth; 

While on you lies the white man's gory 

Greed of earth. 

Strange that to me that burning desert 

Seems so dear. 

The endless sky and lonely mesa, 

Flat and drear, 

Calls me, calls me as the flute of Utah 

Calls his mate, — 

This wild, sad, sunny, brazen country, 

Hot as hate. 

Again the glittering sky uplifts star-blaz- 
ing; 
Again the stream 

From out the far-off snowy mountains 
Sings through my dream ; 
And on the air I hear the flute-voice calling 
The lover's croon. 

And see the listening, longing maiden 
Lit by the moon. 



DO YOU FEAR THE WINDpi 

Do you fear the force of the wind. 

The slash of the rain ? 

Go face them and fight them. 

Be savage again. 

Go hungry and cold like the wolf, 

Go wade like the crane: 
The palms of your hands will thicken, 
The skin of your cheek will tan. 
You '11 grow ragged and weary and swarthy. 

But you '11 walk like a man ! 

1 Copyright, 1899, by The 



THE GOLD-SEEKERS 1 

I SAW these dreamers of dreams go by, 
I trod in their footsteps a space; 
Each marched with his eyes on the sky, 
Each passed with a light on his face. 

They came from the hopeless and sad, 

They faced the future and gold ; 

Some the tooth of want's wolf had made 

mad. 
And some at the forge had grown old. 

Behind them these serfs of the tool 
The rags of their service had flung; 
No longer of fortune the fool, 
This word from each bearded lip rung: 

" Once more I 'm a man, I am free ! 
No man is my master, I say; 
To-morrow I fail, it may be, — 
No matter, I 'm freeman to-day." 

They go to a toil that is sure, 
To despair and hunger and cold ; 
Their sickness no warning can cure, 
They are mad with a longing for gold. 

The light will fade from each eye, 

The smile from each face; 

They will curse the impassable sky, 

And the earth when the snow torrents race. 

Some will sink by the way and be laid 
In the frost of the desolate earth; 
And some will return to a maid, 
Empty of hand as at birth. 

But this out of all will remain, 
They have lived and have tossed • 
So much in the game will he gain. 
Though the gold of the dice has been lost. 



THE GREETING OF THE 
ROSES 1 

We had been long in mountain snow, 
In valleys bleak, and broad, and bare. 
Where only moss and willows grow, 
And no bird wings the silent air. 
And so, when on our downward way 
Wild roses met us, we were glad: 
They were so girlish fair, so gay. 
It seemed the sun had made them mad. 
Macmillan Company. 



HAMLIN GARLAND — MISS CLOUD 



657 



Firginia JBootoatti €loud 



THE MOTHER'S SONG 

" Two women shall be grinding at the mill ; the one 
shall be taken and the other le£t." 

All day aud all day, as I sit at my mea- 
sureless turning, 
They come and they go, — 
The little ones dovyn on the rocks, — and 
the sunlight is burning 
On vineyards below; 
All day aud all day, as I sit at my stone 
aud am ceaselessly grinding. 
The almond boughs blow. 

When she was here — O my first-born ! — 
here, grinding and singing, 
My hand against hers, 
What did I reck of the wind where the 
aloe is swinging. 
And the cypress vine stirs ? 
What of a bird to its little ones hastening, 
flying and crying. 
Through the dark of the firs ? 

When she was here — O my beautiful — 
here by me grinding, 
I saw not the glow 
Of the grape; for the bloom of her face 
that the sunlight was finding, 
Aud the pomegranate blow 
Of her mouth, and the joy of her eyes, and 
her voice like a dove to me singing. 
Made my garden agrow. 

Was it I ? Was it I for whom Death 
canie seeking and calling 
When he found her so fair ? 
At the wheel, at the wheel, from dawn till 
the dew shall be falling, 
I will wait for him there. 
Death! (I shall cry) I am old, but yon sha- 
dow of plums that are purpling 
Was the hue of her hair. 

Death ! (I shall cry) in the sound of the mill 
ever turning 
Till dark brings release, 
Till the sun on the vineyards below me to 
crimson is burning. 
There is measure of peace; 
For all day and all day — with the wheel — 
are her eyes to mine turning: 



But, Death ! (I shall call) take me hence 
ere the daylight its shadow is spurn- 
ing ! 

Hence, ere the night-time can wrap me 
around with my tears and my yearn- 

i"g, — 
When the grinding shall cease ! 



AN OLD STREET 

The Past walks here, noiseless, unasked, 

alone; 
Knockers are silent, and beside each stone 
Grass peers, unharmed by lagging steps 

and slow 
That with the dark and dawn pass to and fro. 
The Past walks here, unseen forevermore, 
Save by some heart who, in her half-closed 

door, 
Looks forth and hears the great pulse beat 

afar, — 
The hum and thrill and all the sounds that 

are. 
And listening remembers, half in fear, 
As a forgotten tuue reechoes near. 
Or from some lilac bush a breath blows 

sweet 
Through the unanswering dusk, the voice- 
less street, — 
Looks forth and sighs, — with candle held 

above, — 
" It is too late for laughter, — or for love." 



CARE 

All in the leafy darkness, when sleep had 
passed me by, 

I knew the surging of the sea — 

Though never wave were nigh. 
All in the leafy darkness, unbroken by a star, 

There came the clamorous call of day, 

While yet the day was far. 
All in the leafy darkness, woven with 
hushes deep, 

I heard the vulture wings of Fear 

Above me tireless sweep; 
The sea of Doubt, the dread of day, upon 
me surged and swept 

All in the leafy darkness. 

And while the whole world slept. 



658 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



YOUTH 

Out of the heart there flew a little singing 
bird, 
Past the dawn and the dew, where leaves 
of morning stirred, 
And the heart, which followed on, said: 
" Though the bird be flown 
Which sang in the dew and the dawn, 
the song is still my own." 



Over the foot-worn track, over the rock and 
thorn, 
The tired heart looked back to the olive 
leaves of morn. 
To the fair, lost fields again, and said : " I 
hear it ! Oh, hark ! " — 
Though the bird were long since slain, 
though the song had died in the 
dark. 



Clinton ^^coHacti 



SIDNEY GODOLPHIN 

They rode from the camp at morn 

With clash of sword and spur. 
The birds were loud in the thorn, 

The sky was an azure blur. 
A gallant show they made 

That warm noontide of the year, 
Led on by a dashing blade, 

By the poet-cavalier. 

They laughed through the leafy lanes, 

The long lanes of Dartmoor; 
And they sang their soldier strains, 

Pledged " death " to the Roundhead 
boor; 
Then they came at the middle day 

To a hamlet quaint and brown 
Where the hated troopers lay. 

And they cheered for the King and 



They fought in the fervid heat, 

Fought fearlessly and well. 
But low at the foeman's feet 

Their valorous leader fell. 
Full on his fair yomig face 

The blinding sun beat down; 
In the morn of his manly grace 

He died for the King and crown. ^ 

Oh the pitiless blow, 

The vengeance-thrust of strife. 
That blotted the golden glow 

From the sky of his glad, brave life ! 
The glorious promise gone; — 

Night with its grim black frown ! 
Never again the dawn, 

And all for the King and crown. 



Hidden his sad fate now 

In the sealed book of the years; 
Few are the heads that bow. 

Or the eyes that brim with tears, 
Reading 'twixt blots and stains 

From a musty tome that saith 
How he rode through the Dartmoor lanes 

To his wof ul, dauntless death. 

But I, in the summer's prime, 

From that lovely leafy land 
Look back to the olden time 

And the leal and loyal band. 
I see tliem dash along, — 

I hear them charge and cheer. 
And my heart goes out in a song 

To the poet-cavalier. 



AS I CAME DOWN FROM LEBA- 
NON 

As I came down from Lebanon, 

Came winding, wandering slowly down 

Through mountain passes bleak and brown, 

The cloudless day was well-nigh done. 

The city, like an opal set 

In emerald, showed each minaret 

Afire with radiant beams of sun. 

And glistened orange, fig, and lime. 

Where song-birds made melodious chime, 

As I came down from Lebanon. 

As I came down from Lebanon, 
Like lava in»the dying glow. 
Through olive orchards far below 
I saw the murmuring river run; 
And 'neath the wall upon the sand 
Swart sheiks from distant Samarcand, 



CLINTON SCOLLARD 



659 



With precious spices they had won, 
Lay long and languidly in wait 
Till they might pass the guarded gate, 
As I came down from Lebanon. 

As I came down from Lebanon, 
I saw strange men from lauds afar, 
In mosque and square and gay bazar, 
The Magi that the Moslem shun, 
And Grave Effendi from Stamboul, 
Who sherbet sipped in corners cool; 
And, from the balconies o'errun 
With roses, gleamed the eyes of those 
Who dwell in still seraglios, 
As I came down from Lebanon. 

As I came down from Lebanon 
The flaming flower of daytime died. 
And Night, arrayed as is a bride 
Of some great king, in garments spun 
Of purple and the finest gold, 
Outbloomed in glories manifold. 
Until the moon, above the dun 
And darkening desert, void of shade, 
Shone like a keen Damascus blade, 
As I came down from Lebanon. 



KHAMSIN 

Oh, the wind from the desert blew in ! — 

Khamsin, 
The wind from the desert blew in ! 
It blew from the heart of the fiery south. 
From the fervid sand and the hills of 

drouth. 
And it kissed the land with its scorching 

mouth; 
The wind from the desert blew in ! 

It blasted the buds on the almond bough. 
And shrivelled the fruit on the orange- 
tree; 
The wizened dervish breathed no vow, 
So weary and parched was he. 
The lean muezzin could not cry; 
The dogs ran mad, and bayed the sky; 
The hot sun shone like a copper disk. 
And prone in the shade of an obelisk 
The water-carrier sank with a sigh. 
For limp and dry was his water-skin; 
And the wind from the desert blew in. 

The camel crouched by the crumbling wall, 
And oh the pitiful moan it made ! 



The minarets, taper and slim and tall, 
Reeled and swam in the brazen light; 
And prayers went up by day and night. 
But thin and drawn were the lips that 

prayed. 
The river writhed in its slimy bed, 
Shrunk to a tortuous, turbid thread; 
The burnt earth cracked like a cloven rind; 
And still the wind, the ruthless wind. 

Khamsin, 
The wind from the desert blew in. 

Into the cool of the mosque it crept. 
Where the poor sought rest at the Prophet's 

shrine ; 
Its breath was fire to the jasmine vine; 
It fevered the brow of the maid who slept, 
And men grew haggard with revel of wine. 
The tiny fledgelings died in the nest; 
The sick babe gasped at the mother's 

breast. 
Then a rumor rose and swelled and spread 
From a tremulous whisper, faint and vague, 
Till it burst in a terrible cry of dread. 
The plague I the plague ! the plague ! — 

Oh the wind, Khamsin, 
The scourge from the desert, blew in ! 



MEMNON 

Why dost thou hail with songful lips no 

more 
The glorious sunrise ? — Why is Memnou 

mute, 
Whose voice was tuned as is the silvery 

flute 
When Thebes sat queenly by the Nile's 

low shore ? 
The chained slaves sweat no longer at the 

oar, 
No longer shrines are raised to man and 

brute. 
Yet dawn by dawn the sun thou didst sa- 
lute 
Gives thee the greeting that it gave of 

yore. 
What nameless spell is on thee ? Dost 

thou wait 
(Hoping and yearning through the years 

forlorn) 
The old-time splendor and the regal state, 
The glory and the power of empire shorn ? 
Oh, break the silence deep, defying fate. 
And cry again melodious to the morn ! 



66o 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



BE YE 



IN LOVE WITH APRIL- 
TIDE? 



Be ye in love with April-tide ? 
I' faith, in love am I ! 
For now 't is sun, and now 't is 

shower, 
And now 't is frost, and now 't is 
flower. 
And now 't is Laura laughing-eyed, 
And now 't is Laura shy. 

Ye doubtful days, slower glide ! 
Still smile and frown, O sky ! 
Some beauty unforeseen I trace 
In every change of Laura's face: 
Be ye in love with April-tide ? 
I' faith, in love am I ! 



A BELL 

Had I the power 

To cast a bell that should from some grand 

tower, 
At the first Christmas hour, 
Outring, 
And fling 

A jubilant message wide. 
The forged metals should be thus allied : — 
No iron Pride, 

But soft Humility, and rich-veined Hope 
Cleft from a sunny slope; 
And there should be 
White Charity, 
And silvery Love, that knows not Doubt 

nor Fear, 
To make the peal more clear; 
And then to firmly fix the fine alloy, 
There should be Joy ! 



!^arcict a^onroc 



FROM THE "COMMEMORATION 
ODE" 

world's COLUMBIAN EXPOSITION, CHICAGO, 
OCTOBER 21, 1S92 

WASHINGTON 

When dreaming kings, at odds with swift- 
paced time. 
Would strike that banner down, 
A nobler knight than ever writ or rhyme 

With fame's bright wreath did crown 
Through armed hosts bore it till it floated 

high 
Beyond the clouds, a light that cannot 
die ! 
Ah, hero of our younger race ! 

Great builder of a temple new ! 
Ruler, who sought no lordly place ! 
Warrior, who sheathed the sword he 
drew ! 
Lover of men, who saw afar 
A world unmarred by want or war, 
Who knew the path, and yet forbore 
To tread, till all men should implore; 
Who saw the light, and led the way 
Where the gray world might greet the 
day; 



Father and leader, prophet sure. 
Whose will in vast works shall endure, 
How shall we praise him on this day of 

days. 
Great son of fame who has no need of 
praise ? 

How shall we praise him ? Open wi9e tlie 
doors 
Of the fair temple whose broad base he 

laid. 
Through its white halls a shadowy cav- 
alcade 

Of heroes moves o'er unresounding floors — 

Men whose brawned arms upraised these 
columns high. 

And reared the towers that vanish in the 
sky, — 

The strong who, having wrought, can never 
die. 

LINCOLN • 

And, lo ! leading a blessed host comes one 

Who held a warring nation in his heart; 

Who knew love's agony, but had no 

part 

In love's delight; whose mighty task was 

done 



HARRIET MONROE 



66 1 



Through blood and tears that we might 

walk in joy, 
And this day's rapture own no sad alloy. 
Around him heirs of bliss, whose bright 

brows wear 
Palm-leaves amid their laurels ever fair. 
Gaily they come, as though the drum 
Beat out the call their glad hearts knew so 

well: 
Brothers once more, dear as of yore, 
Who in a noble conflict nobly fell. 
Their blood washed pure yon banner in the 

sky, 
And quenched the brands laid 'neath these 

arches high — 
The brave who, having fought, can never 

die. 

Then surging through the vastness rise once 

more 
The aureoled heirs of light, who onward 

bore 
Through darksome times and trackless 

realms of ruth 
The flag of beauty and the torch of 

truth. 
They tore the mask from the foul face of 

wrong ; 
Even to God's mysteries they dared 

aspire ; 
High in the choir they built yon altar- 
fire, 
And filled these aisles with color and with 

song: 
The ever-young, the unfallen, wreathing 

for time 
Fresh garlands of the seeming-vanished 

years ; 
Faces long luminous, remote, sublime, 
And shining brows still dewy with our 

tears. 
Back with the old glad smile comes one 

we knew — 
We bade him rear our house of joy to- 
day. 
But Beauty opened wide her starry 

way. 
And he passed on. Bright champions of 

the true. 
Soldiers of peace, seers, singers ever blest, — 
From the wide ether of a loftier quest 
Their winged souls throng our rites to 

glorify, — 
The wise who, having known, can never 

die. 



DEMOCRACY 

For, lo ! the living God doth bare his arm. 
No more he makes his house of clouds 

and gloom. 
Lightly the shuttles move within his loom ; 
Unveiled his thunder leaps to meet the 

storm. 
From God's right hand man takes the 
powers that sway 
A universe of stars. 
He bows them down ; he bids them go or stay ; 

He tames thena for his wars. 
He scans the burning paces of the sun. 
And names the invisible orbs whose courses 
run 
Through the dim deeps of space. 
He sees in dew upon a rose impearled 
The swarming legions of a monad world 
Begin life's upward race. 

Voices of hope he hears 
Long dumb to his despair. 

And dreams of golden years 
Meet for a world so fair. 
For now Democracy doth wake and rise 

From the sweet sloth of youth. 
By storms made strong, by many dreams 
made wise. 
He clasps the hand of Truth. 
Through the armed nations lies his path of 
peace, 
The open Ijook of knowledge in his hand. 
Food to the starving, to the oppressed 
release, 
And love to all he bears from land to land. 
Before his march the barriers fall, 
The laws grow gentle at his call. 
His glowing breath blows far away 
The fogs that veil the coming day, — 
That wondrous day 
When earth shall sing as through the blue 

she rolls 
Laden with joy for all her thronging souls. 
Then shall want's call to sin resound no more 
Across her teeming fields. And pain 
shall sleep, 
Soothed by brave science with her magic 
lore; 
And war no more shall bid the nations 
weep. 
Then the worn chains shall slip from man's 
desire. 
And ever higher and higher 
His swift foot shall aspire; 
Still deeper and more deep 



662 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



His soul its watch shall keep, 


THE NIGHT-BLOOMING CEREUS 


Till love shall make the world a holy place, 




Where knowledge dare uuveil God's very 


Flower of the moon ! 


face. 


Still white is her brow whom we worshiped 




on earth long ago; 


Not yet the angels hear life's last sweet song. 


Yea, purer than pearls in deep seas, and 


Music unutterably pure and strong 


more virgin than snow. 


From earth shall rise to haunt the peopled 


The dull years veil their eyes from her 


skies, 


shining, and vanish afraid, 


When the long march of time. 


Nor profane Iier with age — the immortal, 


Patient in birth and death, in growth and 

blight, 
Shall lead man up through happy realms of 


nor dim her with shade. 


It is we are unworthy, we worldlings, to 


light 


dwell in her ways; 


Unto his goal sublime. 


We have broken her altars and silenced 




her voices of praise. 


IN THE BEGINNING 


She hath hearkened to singing more silvern, 




seen raptures more bright ; 


When sunshine met the wave, 


To some planet more pure she hath fled ou 


Then love was born; 


the wings of the night, — 


Then Venus rose to save 


Flower of the moon ! 


A world forlorn. 






Yet she loveth the world that forsook her, 


For light a thousand wings 


for, lo ! once a year 


Of joy unfurled. 


She, Diana, translucent, pale, scintillant, 


And bound with golden rings 


down from her sphere 


The icy world. 


Floateth earthward like star-laden music, 




to bloom in a flower. 


And color flamed the earth 


And our hearts feel the spell of the goddess 


With glad desire, 


once more for an hour. 


Till life sprang to the birth, 




Fire answering fire. 


See ! she sitteth in splendor nor knoweth 




desire nor decay. 


And so the world awoke, 


And the night is a glory around her more 


And all was done. 


bright than the day. 


When first the ocean spoke 


And her breath hath the sweetness of 


Unto the sun. 


worlds where no sorrow is known; 




And we long as we worship to follow her 


THE FORTUNATE ONE 


back to her own, — 




Flower of the moon ! 


Beside her ashen hearth she sate her down. 




Whence he she loved had fled, — 


A FAREWELL 


His children plucking at her sombre gown 




And calling for the dead. 


Good-by: nay, do not grieve that it is 


One came to her clad in the robes of May, 


over — — 
The perfect hour; 


And said sweet words of cheer, 


That the winged joy, sweet honey-loving 


Bidding her bear the burden in God's way, 


rover. 


And feel her loved ones near. 


Flits from the flower. 


And she who spake thus would have given. 


Grieve not, — it is the law. Love will be 


thrice blest, 


flying — 


Long lives of happy years, 


Yea, love and all. , 


To clasp his children to a mother's breast. 


Glad was the living; blessed be the dying ! 


And weep his widow's tears, 


Let the leaves fall. 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



663 



Cfjadotte perfeinja? d^tct^on 



A COMMON INFERENCE 

A night: mysterious, tender, quiet, deep; 
Heavy with flowers ; full of life asleep ; 
Thrilling with, insect voices; thick with 

stars ; 
No cloud between the dewdrops and red 

Mars; 
The small earth whirling softly on her way, 
The moonbeams and the waterfalls at play ; 
A million million worlds that move in peace, 
A million mighty laws that never cease ; 
And one small ant-heap, hidden by small 

weeds, 
Rich with eggs, slaves, and store of millet 

seeds. 
They sleep beneath the sod 

And trust in God. 

A day : all glorious, royal, blazing bright ; 
Heavy with flowers; full of life and light; 
Great fields of corn and sunshine; cour- 
teous trees; 
Snow-sainted mountains ; earth-embracing 

seas; 
Wide golden deserts; slender silver 

streams ; 
Clear rainbows where the tossing fountain 

gleams ; 
And everywhere, in happiness and peace, 
A million forms of life that never cease; 
And one small ant-heap, crushed by passing 

tread, 
Hath scarce enough alive to mourn the 

dead ! 
They shriek beneath the sod, 

« There is no God ! " 



THE BEDS OF FLEUR-DE-LYS 

High-lying, sea-blown stretches of green 
turf, 
Wind-bitten close, salt-colored by the sea, 
Low curve on curve spread far to the cool 

sky. 
And, curving over them as long they lie, 
Beds of wild fleur-de-lys. 

Wide-flowing, self-sown, stealing near and 
far, 
Breaking the green like islands in the sea; 



Great stretches at your feet, and spots that 

bend 
Dwindling over the horizon's end, — 
Wild beds of fleur-de-lys. 

The light keen wind streams on across the 
lifts, 
Their wind of western springtime by the 
sea; 
The close turf smiles unmoved, but over her 
Is the far-flying rustle and sweet stir 
In beds of fleur-de-lys. 

And here and there across the smooth, low 
grass 
Tall maidens wander, thinking of the sea; 
And bend, and bend, with light robes blown 

aside. 
For the blue lily-flowers that bloom so 
wide, — 
The beds of fleur-de-lys. 



A CONSERVATIVE 

The garden beds I wandered by 
One bright and cheerful morn, 

When I found a new-fledged butterfly, 
A-sitting on a thorn, 

A black and crimson butterfly, 
All doleful and forlorn. 

I thought that life could have no sting 

To infant butterflies, 
So I gazed on this unhappy thing 

With wonder and surprise. 
While sadly with his waving wing 

He wiped his weeping eyes. 

Said I, " What can the matter be ? 

Why weepest thou so sore ? 
With garden fair and sunlight free 

And flowers in goodly store: " — 
But he only turned away from me 

And burst into a roar. 

Cried he, " My legs are thin and few 
Where once I had a swarm ! 

Soft fuzzy fur — a joy to view — - 
Once kept my body warm. 

Before these flapping wing-things grew. 
To hamper and deform ! " 



664 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



At that outrageous bug I shot 

The fury of mine eye; 
Said 1, in scorn all burning hot, 

In rage and auger high, 
" You ignominious idiot ! 

Those wings are made to fly ! " 

" I do not want to fly," said he, 

" 1 only want to squirm ! " 
And he drooped his wings dejectedly. 



But still bis voice was firm: 
" I do not want to be a fly ! 
I want to be a worm ! " 

yesterday of unknown lack ! 
To-day of unknown bliss ! 

1 left my fool in red and black. 

The last I saw was this, — 
The creature madly climbing back 
Into his chrysalis. 



%om0c 3[mogcn <2Buincp 



ODE FOR A MASTER MARINER 
ASHORE 

There in his room, whene'er the moon 

looks in, 
And silvers now a shell, and now a fin. 
And o'er his chart glides like an argosy, 
Quiet and old sits he. 
Danger ! he hath grown homesick for thy 

smile. 
Where hidest thou the while, heart's boast. 
Strange face of beauty sought and lost, 
Star-face that lured him out from boyhood's 

isle? 

Blown clear from dull indoors, his dreams 

behold 
Night-water smoke and sparkle as of old, 
The taffrail lurch, the sheets triumphant toss 
Their phosphor-flowers across. 
Towards ocean's either rim the long-exiled 
Wears on, till stunted cedars throw 
A lace-like shadow over snow, 
Or tropic foimtains wash their agates wild. 

Awhile, play up and down the briny spar 

Odors of Surinam and Zanzibar, 

Till blithely thence he ploughs, in visions 

new. 
The Labradorian blue; 
All homeless hurricanes about him break; 
The purples of spent day he sees 
From Samos to the Hebrides, 
And drowned men dancing darkly in his 

wake. 

Where the small deadly foam-caps, well 

descried, 
Top, tier on tier, the hundred-mountained 

tide, 



Away, and far away, his pride is borne, 

Riding the noisy morn. 

Plunges, and preens her wings, and laughs 

to know 
The helm and tightening halyards still 
Follow the urging of his will. 
And scoff at sullen earth a league below. 

Mischance hath barred him from his heir- 
dom high. 

And shackled him with many an inland 
tie. 

And of his only wisdom made a jibe 

Amid an alien tribe: 

No wave abroad but moans his fallen state. 

The trade-wind ranges now, the trade-wind 
roars ! 

Why is it on a yellowing page he pores ? 

Ah, why this hawser fast to a garden gate ? 

Thou friend so long withdrawn, so deaf, so 

dim, 
Familiar Danger, O forget not him ! 
Repeat of thine evangel yet the whole 
Unto his subject soul, 
Who suffers no such palsy of her drouth, 
Nor hath so tamely worn her chain. 
But she may know that voice again, 
And shake the reefs with answer of her 

mouth. 

O give him back, before his passion fail. 
The singing cordage and the hollow sail, 
And level with those aged eyes let be 
The bright unsteady sea; 
And move like any film from off his brain 
The pasture wall, the boughs that run 
Their evening arches to the sun. 
The hamlet spire across the sown cham- 
paign; 



LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY 



665 



Aud on the shut space and the trivial 

hour, 
Turn the great floods ! and to thy spousal 

bower, 
With rapt arrest and solemn loitering, 
Him whom thou lovedst bring: 
That he, thy faithful one, with praising 

lip. 
Not having, at the last, less grace 
Of thee than had his roving race. 
Sum up his strength to perish with a 

ship. 



IN LEINSTER 

I TRY to knead and spin, but my life is 

low the while. 
Oh, I long to he alone, and walk abroad a 

mile ; 
Yet if I walk alone, and think of naught at 

all, 
Why from me that 's young should the wild 

tears fall ? 

The shower-stricken earth, the earth- 
colored streams, 

They breathe on me awake, and moan to 
me in dreams; 

And yonder ivy fondling the broke castle- 
wall, '- 

It pulls upon my heart till the wild tears 
fall. 

The cabin-door looks down a furze-lighted 

hill, 
And far as Leighlin Cross the fields are 

green and still; 
But once I hear the blackbird in Leighlin 

hedges call. 
The foolishness is on me, and the wild tears 

fall! 



PAX PAGANICA 

Good oars, for Arnold's sake, 
By Laleham lightly bound. 
And near the bank, O soft, 
Darling swan ! 
Let not the o'erweary wake 
Anew from natal ground, 
But where he slumbered oft. 
Slumber on. 



Be less than boat or bird, 
The pensive stream along; 
No murmur make, nor gleam, 
At his side. 

Where was it he had heard 
Of warfare and of wrong ? — 
Not there, in any dream 
Since he died. 



ON FIRST ENTERING WEST- 
MINSTER ABBEY 

Holy of England ! since my light is 

short 
And faint, O rather by the sun anew 
Of timeless passion set my dial true. 
That with thy saints and thee I may con- 
sort. 
And, Avafted in the cool, enshadowed port 
Of poets, seem a little sail long due. 
And be as one the call of memory drew 
Unto the saddle void since Agincourt ! 
Not now, for secular love's unquiet lease, 
Receive my soul, who, rapt in thee ere- 

while. 
Hath broken tryst with transitory things; 
But seal with her a marriage and a peace 
Eternal, on thine Edward's altar-isle, 
Above the oval sea of ended kings. 



MARTYR'S MEMORIAL 

Such natural debts of love our Oxford 

knows. 
So many ancient dues undesecrate, 
I marvel how the landmark of a hate 
For witness unto future time she chose; 
How out of her corroborate ranks arose 
The three, in great denial only great. 
For Art's enshrining ! . . . Thus, averted 

straight. 
My soul to seek a holier captain goes: 
That sweet adventurer whom Truth be- 
fell 
When as the synagogues were watching 

not; 
Whose crystal name on royal Oriel 
Hangs like a shield; who, to an outland 

spot 
Led hence, beholds his Star, and counts it 

well 
Of all his dear domain to live forgot. 



666 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



A FOOTNOTE TO A FAMOUS 
LYRIC 

True love's own talisman, which here 
Shakespeare and Sidney failed to teach, 
A steel-and-velvet Cavalier 
Gave to our Saxon speech: 

Chief miracle of theme and touch 
That upstart enviers adore: 
/ could not love thee, dear, so much, 
Loved I not Honour more. 

No critic born since Charles was king 
But sighed in smiling, as he read: 
" Here 's theft of the supremest thing 
A poet might have said ! " 

Young knight and wit and beau, who won, 
Mid war's adventure, ladies' praise. 
Was 't well of you, ere you had done, 
To blight our modern bays ? 

O yet to you, whose random hand 
Struck from the dark whole gems like these, 
Archaic beauty, never planned 
Nor reared by wan degrees, 

Which leaves an artist poor, and art 
An earldom richer all her years; 
To you, dead on your shield apart, 
Be " Ave ! " passed in tears. 

How shall this singing era spurn 
Her master, and in lauds be loath ? 
Your worth, your work, bid us discern 
Light exquisite in both. 

'T was virtue's breath inflamed your lyre, 
Heroic from the heart it ran; 
Nor for the shedding of such fire 
Lives since a manlier man. 

And till your strophe sweet and bold 
So lovely aye, so lonely long. 
Love's self outdo, dear Lovelace ! hold 
The pinnacles of song. 

THE WILD RIDE 

/ BEAR in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses, 
All day, on the road, the hoofs of invisible 

horses; 
All night, from their stalls, the importunate 

tramping and neighing. 



Let cowards and laggards fall back ! but 
alert to the saddle. 

Straight, grim, and abreast, go the weather- 
worn, galloping legion. 

With a stirrup-cup each to the lily of 
women that loves him. 

The trail is through dolor and dread, over 

crags and morasses; 
There are shapes by the way, there are 

things that appal or entice us: 
What odds ? We are knights, and our 

souls are but bent on the riding. 

/ hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous 

pulses, 
All day, on the road, the hoofs of invisible 

horses; 
All night, from their stalls, the importunate 

tramping and neighing. 

We spur to a laud of no name, out-racing 

the storm- wind; 
We leap to the infinite dark, like the sparks 

from the anvil. 
Thou leadest, O God ! All 's well with 

Thy troopers that follow. 

VALSE JEUNE 

Are there favoring ladies above thee ? 
Are there dowries and lands ? Do they 
say 
Seven others are fair ? But I love thee : 
Aultre n'auray ! 

All the sea is a lawn in our county ; 
All the morrow, our star of delay. 
I am King: let me live on thy bounty ! 

Aultre n'auray ! 

To the fingers so light and so rosy 

That have pinioned my heart, (welladay !) 
Be a kiss, be a ring with this posy: 
Aultre n'auray ! 

OF JOAN'S YOUTH 

I WOXILD unto my fair restore 

A simple thing: 

The flushing cheek she had before ! 

Out-velveting 

No more, no more. 

By Severn shore, 

The carmine grape, the moth's auroral wing. 



LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY — LILLA CABOT PERRY 667 



Ah^ say how winds in flooding grass 


Soft and far-sunken, forty fathoms low 


Unmoor the rose; 


In Long Ago, 


Or guileful ways the salmon pass 


And winnowed into silence on that wind 


To sea, disclose; 


Which takes wars like a dust, and leaves 


For so, alas, 


but love behind. 


With Love, alas. 




With fatal, fatal Love, a girlhood goes. 


Hither Felicity 




Doth climb to me. 




And bank me in with turf and marjoram 


SANCTUARY 


Such as bees lip, or the new-weaned Iamb; 




With golden barberry-wreath. 


High above hate I dwell: 


And bluets thick beneath; 


storms ! farewell. 


One grosbeak, too, mid apple-buds a guest 


Though at my sill your daggered thunders 


With bud-red breast, 


play, 


Is singing, singing ! All the hells that 


Lawless and loud to-morrow as to-day, 


rage 


To me they sound more small 


Float less than April fog below our hermit- 


Thau a yoimg fay's footfall: 


age. 



Silla CatJot #crrp 



MEETING AFTER LONG AB- 
SENCE 



AS SHE FEARED IT WOULD BE 

Here in this room where first we met, 
And where we said farewell with tears, 

Here, where you swore " Though you forget. 
My love shall deeper grow with years," 

Here, where the pictures on the wall, 

The very rugs upon the floor, 
The smallest objects you recall, ■ — 

I am awaiting you once more. 

The books that we together read, — 
From off their shelves they beckon me. 

All here seems living ! What is dead ? 
What is the ghost I fear to see ? 

Unchanged am I. Did you despise 

My love as " small " ? — it fills my heart ! 

You come — a stranger from your eyes 
Looks out — and, meeting, first we part. 

II 

AS IT WAS 

I TOLD myself in singing words 

That you were changed and I was true; 



I would not trust winds, waves, and birds 
That change was not in you. 

I sang love's dirge before we met, — 
"As murdered corpse in river bed 

In eyes my heart cannot forget 
I see Love lying dead ! " 

You came — one look — no word was 
spoken. 

Our hands, once clasped, forgot to part, 
And, though our silence is unbroken, 

Heart has found rest on heart. 



LIFE AND DEATH 

O YE who see with other eyes than ours. 
And speak with tongues we are too deaf to 

hear. 
Whose touch we cannot feel yet know ye 

near. 
When, with a sense of yet undreamed-of 

powers, 
We sudden pierce the cloud of sense that 

lowers. 
Enwrapping us as 'twere our spirit's tomb. 
And catch some sudden glory through the 

gloom. 
As Arctic sufferers dream of sun and 

flowers ! 



668 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Do ye not sometimes long for power to speak 
To our dull ears, and pierce their shroud of 

clay 
With a loud cry, " Why, then, this grief at 

< death ' ? 
We are the living, you the dead to-day ! 
This truth you soon shall see, dear hearts, 

yet weak. 
In God's bright mirror cleared from mortal 

breath ! » 



ART 

WOULDST know the artist? Then go 

seek 
Him in his labors. Though he strive 
That Nature's voice alone should speak 
From page or canvas to the heart, 
Yet is it passionately alive 
With his own soul ! Of him 't is part ! — 
This happy failure, this is Art. 



j^annalj garfeer ItimtiaH 



BEYOND 

Once when the wind was on the roof. 
And nature seemed to question fate, 
A fiery angel, in a dream, 
Called on a soul to contemplate. 

''Look well about thy precincts, learn 
What is thy gain, thy final stock. 
Obtained from living day by day." 
(Hark, how the winds the elm-trees rock!) 

The man's soul cast a glance about. 
The place wherein it dwelt was small, — 
No vast horizon; every side 
Was bounded by a narrow wall. 

But well it knew those precincts, well 
The carven furniture ; the shelf. 
Laden with books; the tinted wall 
Adorned with pictures of itself. 

And of the Father and the Son, 
And myriad saints; and then the earth, 
With all the senses' arabesques. 
That man had planned since man had 
birth. 

" Are these thy treasures ? These are 

dead," 
The fiery angel, in despite, 
Cried out: " What wouldst thou gain for 

these, 
If thou shoiddst stand in God's own light ? — 

" If He should rive these walls away ? 
What sayest thou ? Lo, the drifting sun. 
The moon, tlie stars, the sky, God's sky. 
Are sights a soul should look upon. 



" Pray Him to break these walls away." 
The soul shrank back, with hanging 

head : 
" The moon rides free, the stars dance 

high, 
The sun shines bright: these sights I 

dread." 

The walls seemed riven by a sword; 

The moon rode free, the wind blew 

sweet. 
The stars danced high; then sunshine lay 
In glory at the soul's free feet. 

It seemed to stand in a wide land; 
Around it high the heavens soared; 
It seemed to wither with the light. 
Yet joy through all its being poured. 

Then darkened grew the sky on high. 
And suddenly the sunshine fled; 
The wind howled shrill; the soul, aghast, 
Awoke and trembled on its bed. 

It saw the carven furniture. 
The painted pictures on the wall, 
The shelf, bowed under heavy lore, 
The costly treasures one and all. 

Moonlight lay ghostly over them 

(Outside the wind was in the trees, 

The wind blew free, the stars shone 

high). 
And all the life seemed gone from these. 

The soul arose and paced about. 
" It was a vision of the night; 
Still must I linger in this place: 
But O the wind, the sun, the light ! " 



HANNAH KIMBALL — PAINE — McGAFFEY 



669 



SOUL AND SENSE 


ONE WAY OF TRUSTING 


Myriads of motley molecules through 


Not trust you, dear? Nay, 't is not 


space 


true. 


Move round triumphant. By their whirl- 


As sailors trust the shifting sea 


pool pace 


From day to day, so I trust you. 


Shall we be shaken? All in earth's 


They know how smooth the sea can 


vast span, 


be; 


Our very bodies, veer to other shapes; 


And well they know its treachery 


Mid the mad dance one stubborn power 


When tempests blow; yet forth they 


escapes, 


thrust 


Looks on and marvels, — 't is the soul of 


Their ships, as in security. 


man. 


They trust it, dear, because they must. 



%lbttt 23igciotD ^ainc 



THE LITTLE CHILD 

A SIMPLE-HEARTED child was He, 

And He was nothing more; 
In summer days, like you and me. 

He played about the door, 
Or gathered, where the father toiled, 

The shavings from the floor. 

Sometimes He lay upon the grass. 

The same as you and I, 
And saw the hawks above Him pass 

Like specks against the sky; 
Or, clinging to the gate. He watched 

The stranger passing by. 

A simple child, and yet, I think, 
The bird-folk must have known, 

The sparrow and the bobolink. 

And claimed Him for their own, — 

They gathered round Him fearlessly 
When He was all alone. 

The lark, the linnet, and the dove, 

The chaffinch and the wren. 
They must have known His watchful 
love 

And given their worship then; 



They must have known and glorified 
The child who died for men. 

And when the sun at break of day 

Crept in upon His hair, 
I think it must have left a ray 

Of unseen glory there, 
A kiss of love on that little brow 

For the thorns that it must wear. 

r. 

^ IN LOUISIANA 

The long, gray moss that softly swings 
In solemn grandeur from the trees. 
Like mournful funeral draperies, — 

A brown-winged bird that never sings. 

A shallow, stagnant, inland sea. 

Where rank swamp grasses wave, and 
where 

A deadliness lurks in the air, — 
A sere leaf falling silently. 

The death-like calm on every hand, 

That one might deem it sin to break. 
So pure, so perfect, — these things 
make 

The mournful beauty of this land. / 



<etnm !3r?c<iBaffep 



AS THE DAY BREAKS 

I PRAY you, what 's asleep ? 

The lily -pads, and riffles, and the 
reeds; 



No longer inward do the waters creep. 
No longer outwardly their force recedes, 

And widowed Night, in blackness wide and 
deep. 
Resumes her weeds. 



670 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



I pray you, what 's awake ? 

A host of stars, the long, long milky way 
That stretches out, a glistening silver flake. 

All glorious beneath the moon's cold ray, 
And myriad reflections on the lake 

Where star-gleams lay. 

I pray you, what 's astir ? 

Why, naught but rustling leaves, dry, 
sere, and brown: 
The East's broad gates are yet a dusky 
blur, 
And star-gems twinkle in fair Luna's 
crown. 
And minor chords of wailing winds that were 
Die slowly down. 

I pray you, what 's o'clock ? 

Nay ! who shall answer that but gray- 
stoled dawn ? 
See, how from out the shadows looms yon 
rock, 
Like some great figure on a canvas drawn ; 
And heard you not the crowing of the cock ? 
The night is gone. 

« MARK " 

The heavy mists have crept away, 

Heavily swims the sun, 
And dim in mystic cloudlands gray 

The stars fade one by one ; 
Out of the dusk enveloping 

Come marsh and sky and tree, 
Where erst has rested night's dark ring 

Over the Kankakee. 

" Mark right ! " Afar and faint outlined 

A flock of mallards fly, 
We crouch within the reedy blind 

Instantly at the cry. 
" Mark left ! " We peer through wild rice-, 
blades, 

And distant shadows see, 
A wedge-shaped phalanx from the shades 

Of far-off Kankakee. 

'* Mark overhead ! " A canvas-back ! 

" Mark ! mark ! " A bunch of teal ! 
And swiftly on each flying track 

Follows the shotgun's peal; 
Thus rings that call, till twilight's tide 

Rolls in like some gray sea. 
And whippoorwills complain beside 

The lonely Kankakee. 



A "RISE" 

Under the shadows of a cliff 
Crowned with a growth of stately pine 
An angler moors his rocking skiff 
And o'er the ripple casts his line. 
And where the darkling current crawls 
Like thistle-down the gay lure falls. 

Then from the depths a silver gleam 
Quick flashes, like a jewel bright. 
Up through the waters of the stream 
An instant visible to sight — 
As lightning cleaves the sombre sky 
The black bass rises to the fly. 



GERONIMO 

Beside that tent and under guard 

In majesty alone he stands. 

As some chained eagle, broken-winged, 

With eyes that gleam like smouldering 

brands, — 
A savage face, streaked o'er with paint, 
And coal-black hair in unkempt mane, 
Thin, cruel lips, set rigidly, — 
A red Apache Tamerlane. 

As restless as the desert winds, 
Yet here he stands like carven stone, 
His raven locks by breezes moved 
And backward o'er his shoulders blown; 
Silent, yet watchful as he waits 
Robed in his strange, barbaric guise, 
While here and there go searchingly 
The cat-like wanderings of his eyes. 

The eagle feather on his head 
Is dull with many a bloody stain, 
While darkly on his lowering brow 
Forever rests the mark of Cain. 
Have you but seen a tiger caged 
And sullen through his barriers glare ? 
Mark well his human prototype. 
The fierce Apache fettered there. 



I FEAR NO POWER A WOMAN 
WIELDS 

I FEAR no power a woman wields 
While I can have the woods and fields, 
With comradeship alone of gun, 
Gray marsh-wastes and the burning sun. 



ERNEST McGAFFEY — KATRINA TRASK 



671 



For aye the heart's most poignant pain 
Will wear away 'neath hail and rain, 
And rush of winds through branches bare 
With something still to do and dare, — 

The lonely watch beside the shore, 
The wild-fowl's cry, the sweep of oar, 



And paths of virgin sky to scan 
Untrod, and so uncursed by man. 

Gramercy, for thy haunting face. 
Thy charm of voice and lissome grace, 
I fear no power a woman wields 
While I can have the woods and fields. 



J^atriiia Crnjsffe 



SORROW 



THORN-CROWNED Sorrow, pitiless and 

stern, 

1 sit alone with broken heart, my head 
Low bowed, keeping long vigil with my dead. 
My soul, unutterably sad, doth yearn 
Beyond relief in tears — they only burn 
My aching eyelids to fall back unshed 
Upon the throbbing brain like molten lead. 
Making it frenzied. Shall I ever learn 
To face you fearlessly, as by my door 
You stand with haunting eyes and death- 
damp hair, 

Through the night-watches, whispering 

solemnly, 
"Behold, I am thy guest forevermore." 
It chills my soul to know that you are there. 
Great God, have mercy on my misery! 



LOVE 

O POWER of Love, O wondrous mystery! 
How is my dark illumined by thy light. 
That maketh morning of my gloomy night. 
Setting my soul from Sorrow's bondage free 
With swift-sent revelation! yea, I see 
Beyond the limitation of my sight 
And senses, comprehending now, aright, 
To-day's proportion to Eternity. 
Through thee, my faith in God is made 

more sure. 
My searching eyes have pierced the misty. 

veil; 
The pain and anguish which stern Sorrow 

brings 
Through thee become more easy to endure. 
Love-strong I mount, and Heaven's high 

summit scale; 
Through thee, my soul has spread her 

folded wings. 



AT LAST 



Beyond the bourn of mortal death and 

birth. 
Two lovers — parted sorrowing on earth — 
Met in the land of dim and ghostly 

space. 
Wondering, he gazed on her illumined 

face: 
" Alone you bear the burden now," he 

said, 
" Of bondage ; mine is ended, — I am 

dead." 
With rapturous note of victory, she cried, 
" The Lord of Life be praised ! I, too, 

have died." 



AIDENN 

Heaven is mirrored. Love, deep in thine 

eyes. 
Soft falls its shimmering light upon thy 

face ; 
Tell me, Beloved, is this Paradise, 
Or but Love's bower in some deep-sheltered 

place ? 

Is that God's burning bush that now ap- 
pears. 

Or but the sunlight slanting through the 
trees ? 

Is that sweet song the music of the 
spheres, 

Or but the deep andante of the breeze ? 

Are we blest spirits of some glad new 

birth 
Floating at last in God's eternity ? 
Or art thou, Love, still but a man on 

earth. 
And I a woman clinging close to thee ? 



672 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



aiDtiitional ^electton^ 

(VARIOUS POEMS BELONGING TO THIS DIVISION) 



BIRTH 

Just when each bud was big with bloom, 

And as prophetic of perfume, 
When spring, with her bright horoscope, 

Was sweet as an unuttered hope; 

Just when the last star flickered out, 
And twilight, like a soul in doubt, 

Hovered between the dark and dawn. 
And day lay waiting to be born; 

Just when the gray and dewy air 
Grew sacred as an unvoiced prayer, 

And somewhere through the dusk she 
heard 
The stirring of a nested bird, — 

Four angels glorified the place : 

Wan Pain unveiled her awful face; 
Joy, soaring, sang; Love, brooding, smiled; 
Peace laid upon her breast a child. 

Annie R. Stillman 
(" Grace Raymond ") 



THE FIRST STEP 

My little one begins his feet to try, 
A tottering, feeble, inconsistent way ; 
Pleased with the effort, he forgets his play. 
And leaves his infant baubles where they 

lie. 
Laughing and proud his mother flutters 

nigh, 
Turning to go, yet joy-compelled to stay, 
And, bird-like, singing what her heart 

would say; 
But not so certain of my bliss am I. 
For I bethink me of the days in store 
Wherein those feet must traverse realms 

unknown. 
And half forget the pathway to our door. 
And I recall that in the seasons flown 
We were his all — as he was all our own — 
But never can be quite so any more. 

Andrew Bice Saxton 



TO O. S. C. 

Spirit of " fire and dew," 

Whither hast fled ? 
Thy soul they never knew 

Who call thee dead. 

Deep thoughts of why and how 

Shadowed thine eyes: 
Thou hast the answers now 

Straight from the skies. 
I 
ThriUed with a double power, 

Nature and Art, — 
Dowered with a double dower, 

Reason and heart, — 

Not souls like thine, in vain 

God fashioneth; 
Leadeth them forth again, 

Gently, by death. 

Annie Eliot Trumbull 



A PLAIN MAN'S DREAM 

Were I transported to some distant 
star 
With fifty little children, girls and 
boys, 
Or to some fabled land unknown, afar, 
Where never sound could come of this 
world's noise; 

Our world begun anew, as when of yore 
Sad Adam fled from Eden; I alone 

The sole custodian of all human lore, — 
No books to aid, all rules and records 
gone, — 

What could I teach each tender, untaught 
child ? 
How much of this world's wisdom could 
I give 
To raise him from the savage, fierce and 
wild. 
And train each soul a worthy life to live ? 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



673 



Plain human speech, some simple laws of 
life, 
A little tillage, household arts a few; 
The law of rectitude o'ercoming strife ; 
Things clean and sane, the simple and 
the true. 

But of Man's long, slow climb from Error's 
reach, — 
The hard-won, precious wisdom of the 
ages, — 
What (and, alas, how little !) could I teach 
Which changes men from savages to 
,? 



Some things I've known I never would 
impart. 
Somewhat I 'd tell of building, writing, 
preaching ; 
Some hints I 'd give on healing, science, art ; 
Love they would learn full soon without 
my teaching ! 

Frederick Keppel 

A CHILD OF TO-DAY 

O CHILD, had I thy lease of time ! such 

unimagined things 
Are waiting for that soul of thine to spread 

its untried wings ! 

Shalt thou not speak the stars, and go on 
journeys through the sky ? 

And read the soul of man as clear as now 
we read the eye ? 

Who knows if science may not find some 

art to make thee new, — 
To mend the garments of thy flesh when 

thou hast worn them through ? 

'T is fearful, aye, and beautiful, thy future 

that may be. 
How strange ! — perhaps death's conqueror 

sits smiling on my knee! 

James Buckham 

VINGTAINE 
I 

SEPARATION 

Could she come back who has been dead 

so long, 
How could I tell her of these years of 

wrong ? 



To what wild discords has my life been 

set 
Striving the olden love-song to forget ! 
How could she know, in the abode of 

bliss. 
The utter loneliness of life in this, — 
The weariness that comes of nights un- 

slept. 
The hopeless agony of tears unwept ? 
Could she come back, between would lie 

those years. 
And I could only look at her — through 

tears. 

II 

IMMUTABILIS 

For death must come, and change, and, 
though the loss 

Seems to the lonely soul the heaviest cross. 

More bitter is the fate that day by day 

Sees with sick heart the slow and sure 
decay 

Of Faith and Love; and all our days we 
spend 

In sorrow that these deathless things can 
end. 

Far kinder then were death, for so should 
we 

Be left with an unchanging memory. 

And after-years this comfort would re- 
store, — 

That which Death takes is ours forever- 
more. 

Alice Learned Bunner 



WHEN EVEN COMETH ON 

The mother -heart doth yearn at even- 
tide. 
And, wheresoe'er the straying ones may 

roam, 
When even cometh on they all fare 

home. 
'Neath feathered sheltering the brood doth 

hide ; 
In eager flights the birds wing to their 

nest. 
While happy lambs and children miss the 

sun, 
And to the folds do hurtle one by one. 
As night doth gather slowly in the west. 
All ye who hurry through life's busy 

day, 
Hark'to the greeting that the Ages tell, 



674 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



" The sun cloth rise and set, hail and fare- 


For those who through this little day do 


well." 


roam, 


But comfort ye your heart where'er ye 


When even cometh on shall all fare home. 


stray, 


Lucy Evangeline Tilley 



II 



THE STATUE OF LORENZO DE' 
MEDICI 

Mark me how still I am ! — The sound of 

feet 
Unnumbered echoing through this vaulted 

hall, 
Or voices harsh, on me unheeded fall. 
Placed high in my memorial niche and 

seat, 
In cold and marble meditation meet 
Among proud tombs and pomp funereal 
Of rich sarcophagi and sculptured wall, — 
In death's elaborate elect retreat. 
I was a Priuce, — this monument was 

wrought 
That I in houor might eternal stand; 
In vain, subdued by Buonarroti's hand, 
The conscious stone is pregnant with his 

thought; 
He to this brooding rock his fame devised. 
And he, not I, is here immortalized. 

James Ernest Nesmith 



AHMED 

With wrath-flushed cheeks, and eyelids 

red 
Where anger's fiercest sign was spread, 
And hands whose clenched nails left their 

print 
In the brown palm's deep, sun-warmed tint. 
The chieftains sate in circle wide. 
And in the centre, on his side. 
Thrown like a dog, a thieving brute. 
Lay Ahmed, frowning, bound and mute. 

" The man who takes an offered bribe 
From chieftain of an alien tribe 
Shall die." So ran the Arab law. 
Read by a scribe; and Ahmed saw 
In every eye that scanned his face 
Burn the hot fury of his race. 
His fate was told. All men must die 
Some time: what cared he how or why ? 



They loosed his tight-swathed arms and 

feet, 
Unwound the cashmere turban, sweet 
With spice and attar, stripped the vest 
Of gold and crimson from his breast. 
And laid his broad, brown bosom bare 
To scimeter and desert air. 
He stood as moulded statues stand. 
With sightless eye and nerveless hand: 

As moulded statues stand, but through 
The dark skin, at each breath he drew, 
The wild heart's wilder beating showed. 
Then on the sand he kneeled, and bowed 
His head to meet the ready stroke; 
The headsman threw aside his cloak. 
The curved steel circled in the sun — 
Ahmed was dead, and justice done. 

James Berry Bensel 



AVE ! NERO IMPERATOR 

What ! Roses on thy tomb ! and was there 
then 
One who could sorrow o'er thy wretched 
fate? 
One heart that echoed not the cry of men, — 
Its joy and triumph, its contempt and 
hate? 
One being in all the circle of the lands 
Who owed a kindness to thy blood- 
stained hands ? 

What though thy wrist, adown the chariot 
course. 
Guided thy bounding chargers to the 
prize ! 
What though shamed theatres, with plau- 
dits hoarse. 
Extolled thy lyre o'er his that decks the 
skies ! 
Is glory won from slaves whose nights 

are stored 
With dreams of poisoned draught and 
proffered sword ? 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



^75 



Nero, poor triumphs these; nor broidered 


I sighed, " He is not here. 


gown, 


Be brave, my heart, be brave ! " 


Nor ivory car upon the Sacred Way, 




Nor laureled iniperator's golden crown 


Then for an age of woe. 


For unwon battles borne in vain display. 


Of doubts and hopings vain. 


Can win thee worship or adorn a name. 


I watched the white stars snow 


The scourge of nations — Rome's im- 


On you ^gean plain. 


perial shame. 






I named them by their names — 


But here, where all is silent, where no turn 


Alcyone, and all * 


Of fear or greed can prompt the cour- 


Those far and happy flames 


tier's art, 


On which we mortals call. 


Thine only glory hangs upon thine urn 




To tell that thou hast triumphed o'er a 


"Ere that one sets," I said. 


heart ; 


" My soul shall swim in bliss; " 


And souls of flowers, when mortal lips 


And then, " Ere that is fled 


are dumb, 


My lips shall feel his kiss." 


May plead for thy poor shade in days 




to come. 


The moon has left the Pole, 


DuFFiELD Osborne 


The Pleiades are flown; 




'T is midnight in my soul. 




And I am here alone ! 


A NIGHT IN LESBOS 


George Horton 


Ae'SvKe /iiei' a (reKdvva 




KoX TTAiJtaSe?, jaecrctt 6e 


BACCHYLIDES 


vvKTes, TTopa S' epxer' iopa. 




eyo) Se ixova KarevSoj. — SapphO. 






Fair star, new-risen to our wondering eyes 


The moon has left the sky. 


With brighter glory from thy long 


The Pleiades are flown, 


eclipse ! 


Midnight is creeping nigh, 


Poet, imprisoned in dead centuries ! 


And I am still alone. 


Some god unlocks thy music now, and 




strips 


Ah me ! how long, how long 


The seal of envious silence from thy 


Are all these weary hours ! 


lips; 


I hate the night-bird's song 


And we are fain to hear thy wakening 


Among the Lesbian flowers. 


melodies. 


I hate the soft, sweet breeze 


Thou comest from the darkness of the 


That comes to kiss my hair 


tomb 


From oleander trees 


To sing once more the happy olden 


And waters cool and fair. 


time, — 




Victor and hero, youth and youth's fair 


My heart is fierce and wild; 


bloom. 


The winds should rave and moan. 


The joy of life in manhood's golden 


Ah ! why is Nature mild 


prime ; 


When I am here alone ? 


And I, of alien tongue and harsher clime, 




Listen, and lose awhile life's endless fret 


While yet the silver moon 


and fume. 


Rode o'er the laughing sea. 




My heart was glad, for, " Soon," 


Thus in a sunset isle, long years agone, 


I said, " he comes to me." 


Some shepherd, telling 'neath the ilex 




trees 


But when its placid sphere 


The straying sheep that browsed on upland 


Slid swiftly 'neath the wave, 


lawn, 



676 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Marked with wide eyes across the purple 

seas 
Odysseus' long-lost bark before the breeze 
Glide ghost-like from the glooms of Ocean 

toward the dawn; 

And straight forgot his silly flock aspace 
In marvel of the strange return from 
death, 
While to the harbor-mouth he ran apace 
To hear their tale with wistful, indrawn 

breath : 
" And aye mine eyes are dimmed with 
dreams " (he saith) 
"Of that far land where bide the dead 
heroic race." 

George Meason Whicher 



CARLYLE AND EMERSON 

A BALE-FIRE kindled in the night, 
By night a blaze, by day a cloud. 

With flame and smoke all England woke, — 
It climbed so high, it roared so loud : 

While over Massachusetts' pines 
Uprose a white and steadfast star; 

And many a night it hung unwatched, — 
It shone so still, it seemed so far. 

But Light is Fire, and Fire is Light; 

And mariners are glad for these, ■ — 
The torch that flares along the coast. 

The star that beams above the seas. 

Montgomery Schuyler 



III 



THE TOWN OF HAY 

The town of Hay is far away, 

The town of Hay is far; 
Between its hills of green and gray 

Its winding meadows are. 
Within the quiet town of Hay 

Is many a quiet glen, 
And there by many a shaded way 

Are homes of quiet men: 
And there are many hearts alway 
That turn with longing, night and day, 

Back to the town of Hay. 

Within that good old town of Hay 

There was no pride of birth. 
And no man there pursued his way 

A stranger in the earth; 
And none were high and none were low, 

Of golden hair or gray, 
And each would grieve at other's woe 

Down in the town of Hay ; 
And many a world-scorned soul to-day 
Mid crowded thousands far away 

Weeps for the town of Hay. 

A road leads from the town of Hay 

Forth to a world of din, 
And winds and wanders far away, — 

And many walked therein; 
Far in the crowds of toil and stress 

Their restless footsteps stray, — 
Their souls have lost the quietness 

Of that old town of Hay; 



But in some respite of the fray, 
In transient dreams they float away, 
Back to the town of Hay. 

Old men are in that town of Hay, 

Amid its quiet trees. 
Who dream of strong sons far away 

Upon the stormy seas; 
Old mothers, when the twilight dew 

The woodbine leaves have pearled. 
Dream of their boys who wander through 

The wideness of the world: 
And tears fall in the twilight gray, 
And prayers go up at close of day 

In that old town of Hay. 

A hillside in the town of Hay 

Is slanting toward the sun. 
And gathered 'neath its headstones gray 

Are sleepers, one by one; 
And there are tears in distant lands, 

And grief too deep for tears. 
And farewells waved from phantom hands 

Across the gulf of years : 
And when they place that headstone gray. 
It crushes hearts so far away 

From that old town of Hay. 

Sam Walter Foss 

A DROP OF INK 

This drop of ink chance leaves upon my pen, 
What might it write in Milton's mighty 
hand ! 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



677 



What might it speak at Shakespeare's high 

command ! 
What words to thrill the throbbing hearts 

of men ! 
Or from Beethoven's soul a grand amen, 
All life and death in one full compass 

spanned ! 
Who could its power in Goethe's touch 

withstand ? 
What words of truth it holds beyond our 

ken, — 
What blessed promise we would fain be 

told. 
And cannot, — what grim sentence dread 

as death, — 
What venomous lie, that never shall un- 
fold, — 
What law, undoing science with a breath ! 
But — mockery of life's quick- wasted lot — 
Dropped on a virgin sheet 't is but a blot ! 
Joseph Ernest Whitney 



SEA IRONY 

One day I saw a ship upon the sands 

Careened upon beam ends, her tilted deck 

Swept clear of rubbish of her long-past 
wreck; 

Her colors struck, but not by human hands ; 

Her masts the driftwood of what distant 
strands ! 

Her frowning ports,where at the Admiral's 
beck 

Grim-visaged cannon held the foe in check. 

Gaped for the frolic of the minnow bauds. 

The seaweed banners in her fo'ks'le waved, 

A turtle basked upon her capstan head; 

Her cabin's pomp the clownish sculpin 
braved. 

And on her prow, where the lost figure- 
head 

Once scorned the brine, a name forgot was 
graved. 

It was " The Irresistible " I read ! 

John Langdon Heaton 
Bermuda, February, i8g6. 



SOLITUDE 

It is the bittern's solemn cry 
Far out upon the lonely moors, 

Where steel-gray pools reflect the sky, 
And mists arise in dim contours. 



Save this, no murmur on their verge 
Doth stir the stillness of the reeds; 

Silent the water-snakes emerge 

From writhing depths of water-weeds. 

Through sedge or gorse of that morass 
There shines no light of moon or star; 

Only the fen-fires gleam and pass 
Along the low horizon bar. 

It is the bittern's solemn cry, 

As if it voiced, with mournful stress, 

The strange hereditary sigh 
Of age on age of loneliness. 

Frederick Peterson 



AN EPILOGUE AT WALLACK'S 

The play was done ; 

The mimic lovers of the stage 
Were safe united, with their mimic battles 
won; 

But while the prompter closed his well- 
scored page. 
And on his bell a willing finger laid. 

An old man, stately, kind, and hale, 
In mould of courtly fashion made, 

Set forth the moral of the tale. 

Much bent with time. 

The frost that silvered on his brow 
Had left its markings, lined and figured 
like the rime. 
Which on the pane the warming noon- 
day glow 
Has smoothed and softened with its cheery 
smile. 
And while he spoke they lent him willing 
ears ; 
For warmest youth of heart the while 
Shone through the winter of his years. 

'T was not the words, 

For they were simple as the tales 
Some good old nurse's well-taxed memory 
boards 
Against the time when fairy folk-lore fails. 
He spoke in well-worn terms of good 
advice : 
How fathers should not draw too ready 
rein, 
Nor sons take umbrage in a trice 

At fathers' counsels, — these and more 
again. 



678 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



But as he spoke 

The threadbare words they knew so 
well, 
Came rippling streamlets of applause that 
broke 
In throbbing oceans as the curtain 
fell. 



For youth and age, pride, poverty, e'en sin, 

Fair maid and bloodless pedagogue, 
All felt the world of nearer kin 

The while John Gilbert spoke — The 
Epilogue. 

John Elton Wayland 
(" Idas ») 



IV 



"THE TUNE OF THE TIME 



WHEN LOVE COMES KNOCKING 

When Love comes knocking at thy gate, 

Bid him at once depart: 
He will be patient, and will wait 

The bidding of thy heart. 

Tell him he knoeketh there in vain; 

That he may ne'er come in: 
He '11 smiling leave, but come again. 

Thy loving heart to win. 

Then, when at last he knocks in tears. 

Oh ! open wide Love's gate : 
He '11 soon forget his foolish fears, 

And vow 't was sweet to wait. 

William Henry Gardner 

IF I BUT KNEW 

If I but knew what the tree-tops say, 
Whispering secrets night and day, 

I 'd make a song, my love, for you, 
If I but knew — if I but knew. 

If I but knew how the lilies brew 
Nectar rare from a drop of dew, 

A crystal glass I 'd fill for you, 
If I but knew — if I but knew. 

Love, if I knew but one tender word. 
Sweet as the note of a wooing bird, 

I 'd tell my ardent love to you, 
If I but knew — if I but knew. 

Amy E. Leigh 

SONG FROM "ben HUR " ^ 

Wake not, but hear me, love ! 



Adrift, adrift on slumber's sea. 
Thy spirit call to list to me. 

1 Copyright, 1880, by Haepeb & Brothers. 



Wake not, but hear me, love ! 

A gift from Sleep, the restful king, 
All happy, happy dreams I bring. 

Wake not, but hear me, love ! 

Of all the world of dreams 't is thine 
This once to choose the most divine. 

So choose, and sleep, my love ! 
But ne'er again in choice be free. 
Unless, unless — thou dream'st of me. 
Lew Wallace 



II 



AT TWILIGHT 

The roses of yesteryear 

Were all of them white and red: 
It fills my heart with silent fear 

To find all their beauty fled. 

The roses of white are sere, 
All faded the roses of red; 

And one who loves me is not here, 
And one that I love is dead. 

Peyton Van Rensselaer 



ART THOU THE SAME 

Art thou the same, thou sobbing winter 
wind ? 

The same that rocked the cradle of the 
May, 

That whispered through the leaves in sum- 
mer noon. 

And swelled the anthem of the full-crowned 
year ? 

Art thou the same, thou piteous, moaning 
thing, 

Beating against the pane with ghostly 
hands. 

Wailing in agony across the waste, ^ 

Art thou the same — the same ? 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



679 



Art thou the same, thou poor heart bruised 

and faint, 
Treading thy way alone through twilight 

gloom ? 
Art thou the same that sang to greet the 

dawn, 
Carolling in the sunlight like a bird. 
Too glad for speech, too glad for aught 

but song ? 
Art thou the same that prayest but for 

night, 
For night to come and ease thee of thy 

pain, — 
Art thou the same — the same ? 

Thou winter wind that wailest through the 

night, 
Thou broken heart too crushed to moan or 

cry, 
There will be rest even for ye, poor 

things, 
And more than rest, — a joy new-washed 

in tears; 
For through the portals of the fading 

year 
Lie sunny hills and fields fresh-clad in 

green, 
And after night who knows what day may 

bring ? — 
And ye unchanged, the same — the same ? 
Frances Dorr (Swift) Tatnall 

III 

THE SONG OF THE TURNKEY 

I 

In the darkness deep 

Of the donjon-keep, 
Where the spiders spin their strands ; 

In the home of bats 

And of old gray rats, 
Are my lord the turnkey's lands. 

O, his task is light. 

But from morn till night 
On his rounds he needs must go. 

It is tramp, tramp, tramp, 

With his keys and lamp. 
In the corridors down below. 

Then it 's ho ! ho ! ho ! 
I am king of the donjon deep. 
There is music of bolt and chain 
In the. turnkey's dark domain. 



How merrily jingle the chains that cling ! 
How cheerily tinkle the keys that swing ! 
I am king — king — king of the donjon- 
keep ! 



Though the ravens scream 

From the gallows beam, 
It is little heed he takes; 

And a song he roars 

Through the corridors. 
As his watchful round he makes. 

None are false to him 

In his kingdom grim, 
For their monarch never sleeps. 

O, there 's none dare say 

To the turnkey nay; 
He is king of the donjon deeps. 

Then it 's ho ! ho ! ho ! etc. 

Harry Bache Smith 

THE armorer's SONG 



Let hammer on anvil ring. 
And the forge fire brightly shine; 

Let wars rage still. 

While I work with a will 
At this peaceful trade of mine. 
The sword is a weapon to conquer fields; 

I honor the man who shakes it: 
But naught is the lad who the broad-sword 
wields 

Compared to the lad who makes it. 

Clang ! Clang ! Clang ! 
Then huzzah for the anvil, the forge, and 
the sledge ! 
Huzzah for the sparks that fly ! 
If I had a cup I would straightway pledge 
The armorer — that is I ! 



Let others of glory sing. 
As they struggle in glory's quest. 

Let them wave their brands 

In their mailed hands, 
While the sword smites shield and crest. 
Oh, war is a trade I have not essayed. 

Though goodliest fame attends it. 
sing of the one who, when fight is 
done. 

Takes every good sword and mends it. 



68o 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



Clang ! Clang ! Clang ! 
Then liuzzah for the valiant, the squire, or 
the kuight, 
Who loveth the battle-cry ! 
But here 's to the swordsman that maketh 
them fight, 
The armorer — that is I ! 

Harry Bache Smith l 

HIS MAJESTY 

I 'm king of the road ! I gather 

My toll on the world's highways. 

They pave the street for my royal feet, 

And the man in the wagon pays. 

With my sturdy heels I laugh at wheels; 

I hurry at no man's will, 

For the rich who ride my meat provide; 

They must feed the king to his fill. 

I 'm king of the road ! Before me 

My way lies over the land. 

With a wild rose train from meadow and 

lane 
And the hail of a song-bird band. 
They are slaves who team by wagon or 

steam : 
The footman carries the crown. 
What cares the tramp whose supper and 

camp 
Are waiting in every town ? 

I 'm king of the road all summer; 

In winter I still go free. 

Let the snow-blast come, in a nook I'll chum 

With a gipsy crew like me. 

I '11 ask no shares with home-proud heirs; 

They 're the scorn of my soul while I 

Can tread the floors of the great Out-doors, 

And nobody ask me why. 

Theron Brown 



IV 



LITTLE ALABAMA COON 

I 's a little Alabama Coon, 

And I has n't been born very long ; 
I 'member seein' a great big round moon; 

I 'member hearin' one sweet song. 
When dey tote me down to de cotton field, 

Dar I roll and I tumble in de sun; 
While my daddy pick de cotton, mammy 
watch me grow, 

And dis am de song she sung: 

I See, also 



Go to sleep, my little pickaninny, — 
Brer' Fox '11 catch you if yo' don't; 

Slumber on de bosom of yo' ole Mammy 
Jinny, — 
Mammy 's gwine to swat yo' if you won't. 

Sh ! sh ! sh ! 

Lu-la, lu-la lu-la lu-la lu ! 
Underneaf de silver Southern moon; 

Rock-a-by ! hush-a-hy ! 

Mammy's little baby. 
Mammy's little Alabama Coon. 

Dis hyar little Alabama Coon 

Specks to be a gro wed-up man some day; 
Dey 's gwine to christen me hyar very 
soon, — 

My name 's gwine to be " Henry Clay." 
When I 's big, I 's gwine to wed a yellow gal ; 

Den we'll hab pickaninnies ob our own; 
Den dat yellow gal shall rock 'em on her 
bosom, 

And dis am de song she '11 croon: 

Go to sleep, my little pickaninny, — 
Brer' Fox '11 catch you if yo' don't; 

Slumber on de bosom of yo' ole Mammy 
Jinny, — 
Mammy 's gwine to swat yo' if you won't. 

STi! sh! sh! 
Lu-la, lu-la lu-la lu-la lu ! 
Underneaf de silver Southern moon; 
Mock-a-by ! hush-a-hy ! 
Mammy's little baby, 
Mammy's little Alabama Coon. 

'Hattie Starr 

go sleep, ma honey 

Whipp'will 's singin' to de moon, — 
Go sleep, ma honey, m — m. 

He sing a pow'ful mo'nful tune. 
Go sleep, ma honey, m — m. 

De day bird 's sleepin' on his nes', 

He know it time to take a res'. 

An' he gwine ter do his lebel bes', — 
Go sleep, ma honey, m — m. 

Old banjo 's laid away, — 

Go sleep, ma honey, m — m. 
Its pickin 's froo for to-day, — 

Go sleep, ma honey, m — m. 
De night time surely come to pass, 
De cricket 's chirpin' in de grass. 
An' de ole mule 's gone to sleep at las',— 
Go sleep, ma honey, m — m. 

p. 760. 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



681 



I hear de night win' in de corn, — 

Go sleep, ma honey, m — m. 
Dey's a ghos' out dah, sure 's yo' born, — 

Go sleep, ma honey, m — m. 
But he dassent come wliere we keep a light, 
An' de candle 's burnin' all de night. 
So sink to res', des be all right, — 
Go sleep, ma honey, m — m. 

Edward D. Barker 

KENTUCKY BABE 

'Skeeters am a hummin' on de honeysuckle 
vine, — 

Sleep, Kentucky Babe ! 
Sandman am a comin' to dis little coon of 
mine, — 

Sleep, Kentucky Babe ! 
Silv'ry moon am shinin' in de heabens up 

above. 
Bobolink am pinin' f o' his little lady love : 
Yd* is mighty lucky. 
Babe of old Kentucky, — 
Close yo" eyes in sleep. 

Fly away, 
Fly away, Kentucky Babe, fly away to rest. 

Fly away. 
Lay yo' kinky, woolly head on yo' mammy's 
breast, — 
Um — um — , 
Close yo' eyes in sleep. 

Daddy 's in de cane-brake wid his little 
dog and gun, — 

Sleep, Kentucky Babe ! 
'Possum fo' yo' breakfast when yo' sleepin' 
time is done, — 

Sleep, Kentucky Babe ! 



Bogie man '11 catch yo' sure unless yo' close 

yo' eyes, 
Waitin' jes outside de doo' to take yo' by 
surprise: 

Bes' be keepin' shady, 
Little colored lady, — 
Close yo' eyes in sleep. 

Richard Henry Buck 



V 



A LITTLE DUTCH GARDEN 

I PASSED by a garden, a little Dutch garden, 
Where useful and pretty things grew, — 

Heart's-ease and tomatoes, and pinks and 
potatoes. 
And lilies and onions and rue. 

I saw in that garden, that little Dutch 
garden, 
A chiibby Dutch man with a spade, 
And a rosy Dutch frau with a shoe like a 
scow, 
And a flaxen haired little Dutch maid. 

There grew in that garden, that little 
Dutch garden. 

Blue flag flowers lovely and tall, 
And early blush roses, and little pink posies, 

But Gretchen was fairer than all. 

My heart 's in that garden, that little Dutch 
garden, — 
It tumbled right in as I passed, 
Mid wildering mazes of spinach and daisies, 
And Gretchen is holding it fast. 

Hattie Whitney 



V 



"A SONG THAT OLD WAS SUNG" 

THE OLD SEXTON 

Nigh to a grave that was newly made, 
Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn 

spade; 
His work was done, and he paused to wait 
The funeral train at the open gate. 
A relic of bygone days was he, 
And his locks were white as the foamy sea; 



And these words came from his lips so thin: 
" I gather them in: I gather them in. 

" I gather them in ! for man and boy. 

Year after year of grief and joy, 

I 've builded the houses that lie around, 

In every nook of this burial ground ; 

Mother and daughter, father and son. 

Come to my solitude, one by one: 

But come they strangers or come they kin — 

I gather them in, I gather them in. 



682 



SECOND LYRICAL PERIOD — DIVISION III 



" Many are witH me, but still I 'm alone, 
I 'm king of the dead — and I make my 

throne 
On a monument slab of marble cold; 
And my sceptre of rule is the spade I 

hold: 
Come they from cottage or come they from 

hall, 
Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all ! 
Let them loiter in pleasure or toilfully 

spin — 
I gather them in, I gather them in. 

" I gather them in, and their final rest 

Is here, down here, in the earth's dark 

breast ! " 
And the sexton ceased, for the funeral 

train 
Wound mutely o'er that solemn plain ! 
And I said to my heart, when time is told, 
A mightier voice than that sexton's old 
Will sound o'er the last trump's dreadful 

din — ■ 
" I gather them in, I gather them in." 

Park Benjamin i 

HE CAME TOO LATE 

He came too late ! — Neglect had tried 

Her constancy too long; 
Her love had yielded to her pride. 

And the deep sense of wrong. 



She scorned the offering of a heart 

Which lingered on its way, 
Till it could no delight impart. 

Nor spread one cheering ray. 

He came too late ! — At once he felt 

That all his power was o'er: 
Indifference in her calm smile dwelt — 

She thought of him no more. 
Anger and grief had passed away. 

Her heart and thoughts were free; 
She met him, and her words were gay — 

No spell had Memory. 

He came too late ! — The subtle chords 

Of love were all unbound. 
Not by offence of spoken words, 

But by tlie slights that wound. 
She knew that life held nothing now 

That could the past repay; 
Yet she disdained his tardy vow, 

And coldly turned away. 

He came too late ! — Her countless dreams 

Of hope had long since flown; 
No charms dwelt in his chosen themes, 

Nor in his whispered tone. 
And when, with word and smile, he tried 

Affection still to prove. 
She nerved her heart with woman's pride, 

And spurned his fickle love. 

Elizabeth Bogart2 



1 See Biographical Note, p. 779. 
* See BioGEAPHicAL Note, p. 780. 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 

(TYPICAL POETS AND POETRY OF THE FINAL YEARS) 
1890-1900 



THE SUCCESSION 

As one by one the singers of our land, 

Summoned away by Death's unfailing dart, 
Unto the greater mystery depart, 

Sadly we watch them from the desolate strand. 

Oh ! who shall fill their places in the band 
Of tuneful voices ? Who with equal art 
Speak the unwritten language of the heart, 

And the mute signs of Nature understand ? 

Yet poetry from earth has never ceased : 
It is a fire perpetual, which has caught 
Its flame from off the altar -place of Heaven. 

Never has failed, in darkest days, a priest 
Who, by no price of gain or glory bought, 

For his soul's peace his life to song has given. 

Fbancbs Laughton Mace 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 

(TYPICAL POETS AND POETRY OF THE FINAL YEARS) 



("JOHN PHILIP VARLEY") 



FROM "TO A WRITER OF THE 
DAY" 

TECHNIQUE 

Could but this be brought 
Into your ken, — that the technique is 

thought ! 
Escape from " Style," the notion men can 

use 
Words without thoughts, — so wrench and 

so abuse 
The innocent language to their ends that 

they 
Will seem to be respectful, honest, gay, 
Grave, or what else, — and all the glorious 

while 
The authors' selves sit with the wise and 

smile : 
" 'T is but a trick, 't is words, it is a style ! " 

Your technique, then, is thought, just as I 

say. 
And if you '11 write a poem, there 's no way 
But first to think it clearly; pin your mind 
Upon your thought; fasten it there, and 

bind 
The thought into your heart: when your 

veins burn and flow 
With love or hate, the thoughts to music go. 
Melt into music, and pour fully out 
In a rich flood; — but to take thought about 
The " music " of your words, 't is matter 

quite 
Beyond your conscious power ! For rhymes, 

they 're right 
Or wrong according as they hear, not look 
When printed by a printer in a book ! 



And their " correctness " may be measured 

best. 
And indeed only, by a certain test : 
That, namely, for rebellions, — which are so 
Until they have succeeded, when they go 
By quite another name. Forget not, too, 
That every English poet known to you. 
That is to say all of them, rhymed just as 
The spirit took them and their pleasure 

was. 
And, masters that they were, rhymed 

"falsely," so 
As now no poetaster dares to do ! 

PURPOSE 

So then, at last, let me awake this sleep 
And languor of yourself: it is too deep. 
And 't is too long ! 

Oh, I would have you look 
With judgment on your life, and not to 

brook 
The less in art, as not in truth ; — forgive 
Much in you now I can, never that you less 

live ! 
I may put by whatever choice of themes, 
But not this air of being by rich dreams 
Roofed over, and floored under, and walled 

in. 
As Eastern princes in a palanquin 
Luxuriously ride, by eunuchs round 
Held and supported, lifted from the ground, 
And softly boine, — so you, on the mild 

shoulders. 
Effeminate, of dreams ! — Your spirit 

moulders; 
The freshness of your soul withers away 
As roses do that cannot find the day. 



686 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



Oh, free yourself ! — take up your life and 

share 
The splendor of this day, the world's great 

air. 
And this new laud's delight, — this land 

that we 
Adore, this people, this great liberty 
Of nations in new birth, — a happy shower 
Of golden States, — a many-blossomed 

flower ! — 
Now grown a Commonwealth, whose 

strength and state 
And health are dangerous to all that hate 
Freedom, and fatal to all those who'd be 
Sunk in the dark of Time's abysmal sea, 
Safe anchored in the past — safe dead ! — 

that none 
Might longer make them fear a change 

beneath the sun. 
To fright them with new good. — But oh, 

to those 
Whose blood within them leaps and laughs 

and flows ; 
To all who proudly hope; to all who fain 
With their right hands and with their heart 

and brain 
Would throne the right, and make the good 

to reign; 
To all who 'd lift man up, and who, heart- 
free, 
Haste toward the light, — this Land and 

State should be 
Dear as their life ! — And to her sons should 

she 
Be born again in love, since with her noblest 

blood 
And her right hand of youth she smote the 

brood 
Of her own loins, nested in servitude, 
Shadowing the world's detraction with fair 

peace. 
Dear mother of her sons, whose wealth is 

these; 
Her more than gold, their valor, mercy, 

truth; 
Her mighty age, immortal in their youth : — 
Dear light of hope, oh, needs she not to be 
Forever saved into new liberty ? 
The fallen blood of martyrs is in vain 
If ours be not as free to fall again ! 
But her salvation is a rigorous task, 
Eternally accomplishing. — I ask 
You, therefore, as one owing more than most 
To her, who is your happiness and boast. 
That you cast from you ail that will not wake 



Men's hearts from sensual sleep : — for 

her great sake 
Put by the velvet touch, the easy grace, 
The fingers dreaming on the lyre, the face 
Forgetful, listening to light melodies; 
Cease thou thy toying with the hours, and 

cease 
This riot of thy youth, this wantoning 
With all the sap and spirit of thy Spring. 
Not twice that verdure's given thee; the 

Tree 
Of Life not twice shall blossom; and to be 
Young, 't is to be in heaven, 't is to be 
Full of ambition, filled with hot desire. 
Pregnant with life, and steeped in such a 

fire 
As sets a world in hope ! — Oh, could I say 
That which I would, you could not say me 

nay. 
But let your country plead with you; give 

heed 
To her dumb call; sow the eternal seed 
Of Truth, and Righteousness, and Love; — 

though you 
Shall be, as poets should, known to but few, 
Yet your reward is great: it is to be 
Sown in the hearts of men, to make men 

free; 
And in your thoughts to be your land's firm 

stay. 
And her salvation in a falling day. 
More than dread cannon, than bright thou- 
sands more: 
For thoughts, like angels, wage eternal war. 

SONGS 

FEAR 

There is a sound I would not hear, 
Although it music's self might be; 

Lest in my breast a crystal sphere 
Might burst, might break for melody. 

There is a face I would not see 

Tho' like the springtime it were fair; 

Lest love that was a barren tree 

Should burst in bloom — should blossoms 
bear. 



SWEETS THAT DIE 

How fades that native breath 
The rose exhales, 

Whenas her bloom is o'er I 



LANGDON ELWYN MITCHELL 



687 



Altho' her petals on the evening gales 
Are wafted by, a fleet of fairy sails, 
She is, alas ! no more. 

And love dies like the rose, 
And fills the air 

With many a deep drawn sigh: 
Shall I not both embalm with sacred 

care, 
That they may have, in sweetly-breathed 
air, 
Their immortality ! 



TO ONE BEING OLD 

Her aged hands are worn with works of 

love; 
Dear aged hands that oft on me are laid ; 
Her heart 's below, but, oh, her love 's 

above, 
A.S flowers do sunward turn though in the 

shade. 

The set of sun is dear that lasts not 

long, 
And she is sweeter far than light that 

dies: 
But if her aged body 's weak, she 's strong; 
Her folly, wisdom in a softer guise. 

The very smile of love is hers, and she 
Hath him long known where others knew a 

shade ; 
Forget thine eyes, and learn herewith to 

see 
Within this time-worn sheath the snowy 

blade. 

Upon her lovely cheek there still doth 

play 
A maiden's blush, for her heart grows not 

old; 
Her silver locks go sweetly all astray; 
Though silver are her locks, her heart is 

gold ! 



THE WAYSIDE VIRGIN 

FRANCE 

I AM the Virgin; from this granite ledge 
A hundred weary winters have I watched 
The lonely road that jsvanders at my feet; 



And many days I 've sat here, in my 

lap 
A little heap of snow, and overheard 
The dry, dead voices of sere, rustling 

leaves; 
While scarce a beggar creaked across the 

way. 
How very old I am ! I have forgot 
The day they fixed me here; and whence I 

came. 
With crown of gold, and all my tarnished 

blue. 

How green the grass is now, and all around 
Blossoms the May; but it is cold in here. 
Sunless and cold. — Now comes a little 

maid 
To kneel among the asters at my feet; 
What a sweet noise she makes, like mur- 

murings 
Of bees in June ! I wonder what they 

say, 
These rosy mortals, when they look at 

me? 
I wonder why 
They call me Mary and bow down to 

me? 
Oh, I am weary of my painted box, — 
Come, child. 
And lay thy warm face on my wooden 

cheek. 
That I may feel it glow as once of yore 
It glowed when I, a cedar's happy heart. 
Felt the first sunshine of the early spring ! 



WRITTEN AT THE END OF A 
BOOK 

This is the end of the book 

Written by God. 
I am the earth he took, 

I am the sod. 
The wood and iron which he struck 

With his sounding rod, 

I am the reed that he blew: 

Once quietly 
By the riverside I grew. 

Till one day he 
Rooted me up and breathed a new 

Delirium in me. 

Would he had left me there, 
Where all is still; 



688 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



To lean on tlie heavy air, 

Silent, at will 
To be, and joy, yet not to share, 

The avenging thrill. 

I am the reed that he blew, 

Which yet he blows, 
(For this is his breath too, 

And these, like those, 



Are his own words blown unto you, 
— Hearken if you choose !) 

This is the end of the book; 

And, if you read 
Ought that is evil, why, look, 

I but obeyed, 
— When deep his voice in my ear shook, 

I blew as he said ! 



IBaHace mice 



UNDER THE STARS 

Tell me what sail the seas 

Under the stars ? 
Ships, and ships' companies, 

Off to the wars. 

Steel are the ship's great sides. 

Steel are her guns, 
Backward she thrusts the tides. 

Swiftly she runs; 

Steel is the sailor's heart. 

Stalwart his arm. 
His the Republic's part 

Through cloud and storm. 

Tell me what standard rare 
Streams from the spars ? 

Red stripes and white they bear. 
Blue, with bright stars: 

Red for brave hearts that burn 

With liberty. 
White for the peace they earn 

Making men free. 

Stars, for the Heaven above, — 

Blue for the deep. 
Where, in their country's love, . 

Heroes shall sleep. 

Tell me why on the Ireeze 

These banners blow ? 
Ships, and ships' companies, 

Eagerly go 

Warring, like all our line, 

Freedom to friend 
Under this starry sign. 

True to the end. 



Fair is the Flag's renown. 

Sacred her scars. 
Sweet the death she shall crown 

Under the stars. 



THE END 

No freeman, saith the wise, thinks much on 

death : 
No man with soul he dareth call his own 
Liveth in dread lest there be no atone 
In time to come for yesterday's warm 

breath. 
No more than he for such end hungereth 
As falls to those who speed their souls 

a-groan ; 
Death may be King, to sit A tottering 

throne 
And hale men hence — let cowards cringe 

to Death ! 
Who giveth, taketh; and the days go by: 
No seed sowed we; let him who did come 

reap : 
Sweet peace is ours — and everlastingly, — 
A little sleep, a little slumber ! Ay, 
This much is known: there is for thee and 

me 
A little folding of the hands to sleep. 



IMMORTAL FLOWERS 

Of old, a man who died 
Had, in his pride, 
Woman and steed and slave 
Heaped at his grave; 
Given this sudden end 
Their souls to send, 
Still serving, whitherward 
Their lord had fared. 



WALLACE RICE — ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS 



689 



Grown wiser, we, to-day. 


And there be those of us 


A happier way 


Who, amorous 


Find for our love and grief 


Of life and hope, can see 


And death's relief: 


How gleefully 


Flowers their fragrance strew 


He, lonely, greets beyond 


Where he must go, 


These flowers so fond. 


Gladden the narrow gate 


Even as our common doom 


Whereat we wait. 


Saddens their bloom. 



HoBcrt Cameron Hogcr^ 



THE DANCING FAUN 

Thou dancer of two thousand years, 

Thou dancer of to-day. 
What silent music fills thine ears, 

What Bacchic lay, 
That thou shouldst dance the centuries 

Down their forgotten way ? 

What mystic strain of pagan mirth 

Has charmed eternally 
Those lithe, strong limbs, that spurn the 
earth ? 

What melody, 
Unheard of men, has Father Pan 

Left lingering with thee ? 

Ah ! where is now the wanton throng 
That round thee used to meet ? 

On dead lips died the drinking-song, 
But wild and sweet, 

What silent music urged thee on, 
To its unuttered beat, 

That when at last Time's weary will 

Brought thee again to sight, 
Thou cam'st forth dancing, dancing still. 

Into the light. 
Unwearied from the murk and dusk 

Of centuries of night ? 

Alas for thee ! — Alas, again. 

The early faith is gone ! 
The Gods are no more seen of men, 

All, all are gone, — 
The shaggy forests no more shield 

The Satyr and the Faun. 

On Attic slopes the bee still hums, 

On many an Elian hill 
The wild-grape swells, but never comes 

The distant trill 



Of reedy flutes; for Pan is dead, 
Broken his pipes and still. 

And yet within thy listening ears 

The pagan measures ring, — 
Those limbs that have outdanced the years 

Yet tireless spring: 
How canst thou dream Pan dead when 
still 

Thou seem'st to hear him sing ! 



A SLEEPING PRIESTESS OF 
APHRODITE 

She dreams of Love upon the temple 
stair, — 
About her feet the lithe green lizards 

In all the drowsy, warm, Sicilian air. 

The winds have loosed the fillet from her 

hair. 
Sea winds, salt-lipped, that laugh and 

seem to say, 
" She dreams of Love, upon the temple stair. 

" Then let us twine soft fingers, here and 

there. 
Amid the gleaming threads that drift and 

stray 
In all the drowsy, warm, Sicilian air, 

" And let us weave of them a subtle snare 

To cast about and bind her, as to-day 
She dreams of Love, upon the temple stair." 

Alas, the madcap winds, — how much they 

dare ! 
They wove the web, and in their wanton 

way. 
In all the drowsy, warm, Sicilian air, 



690 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



They bound her sleeping, in her own bright 
hair. 
And as she slept came Love — and passed 


DOUBT 


Slow, groping giant, whose unsteady limbs 


away, — 


Waver and bend and cannot keep the 


She dreams of Love, upon the temple 


path. 


stair, 


Thy feet are foul with mire, and thy knees 


In all the drowsy, warm, Sicilian air. 


Torn by the nettles of the wayside fen; 




The dust of dogmas dead is in thy mouth, 




Yet down the ages thou hast followed him — 


VIRGIL'S TOMB 


Clear-eyed Belief — who journeys with 




light heart. 


" CECINI PASCUA, RURA, DUCES " 






The leaves of Hope about his head are 


On an olive-crested steep 


green. 


Hanging o'er the dusty road, 


Firm falls his foot upon the path he treads, 


Lieth in his last abode. 


To every day he suits his pilgrimage. 


Wrapped in everlasting sleep, 


And rest at dusk is his, — complete and 
deep. 


He who in the days of yore 


Sang of pastures, sang of farms. 


For thee — the bramble: thorns of vain 


Sang of heroes and their arms. 


debate 


Sang of passion, sang of war. 


Harrow the hundred furrows of thy brow: 




Sleep is not thine, — the darkness has no 


When the lark at dawning tells. 


balm 


Herald like, the coming day, 


For thy torn spirit. Deep into the night 


And along the dusty way 


Thy feet that gain no guidance from the 


Comes the sound of tinkling bells. 


stars 




Press on, until before the silent tent, 


Rising to the tomb aloft, 


Where deep and dreamlessly he lies asleep, 


While some modern Corydon 


Thou comest with tired limbs to sink be- 


Drives his bleating cattle on 


side 


From the stable to the croft: 


The ashes of his fire and find them cold. 


Then the soul of Virgil seems 




To awaken from its dreams, 


A HEALTH AT THE FORD 


To sing again the melodies 




Of which he often tells, — 


Broncho Dan halts midway of the stream, 


The music of the birds. 


Sucking up the water that goes tugging at 


The lowing of the herds, 


his knees; 


The tinkling of the bells. 


High noon and dry noon, — to-day it does n't 




seem 
As if the country ever knew the blessing of 


THE SHADOW ROSE 


a breeze. 




A torn felt hat with the brim cockled 


A NOISETTE on my garden path 


up. 


An ever-swaying shadow throws; 


A dip from the saddle — there you are — 


But if I pluck it strolling by, 


It 's the brew of old Snake River in a cow- 


I pluck the shadow with the rose- 


boy's drinking-cup — 




At the ford of Deadman's Bar. 


Just near enough my heart you stood 




To shadow it, — but was it fair 


"Now for a toast, a health before we 


In him, who plucked and bore you off, 


go,— 


To leave your shadow lingering 


A health to the life that makes livmg worth 


there ? 


a try; 



ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS — VANCE THOMPSON 691 



A long drink, a deep drink, it 's bumpers, 

Dan, you know; 
No heel-taps now, old pony, you must drink 
the river dry ! 
Here 's to her then, — every sunrise knows 

her name, 
I've given it away to every star; 
Cold water in a hat ! Pretty tough, but 
what of that ? — 
It 's the best — at Deadman's Bar. 

" Where Summer camps all the year by the 

sea, 
By the broad Pacific where your widened 

waters pour. 
Old Snake Kiver, take a message down for 

me, 
Tell the waves that sing to her along the 

Southern Shore; 
Say that I 'm a-rustling, though the 

trail that leads to wealth 
Is mighty hard to find and dim and 

far, 



But tell her that I love her, and say I draiik 
her health 
To-day at Deadman's Bar." 



THE ROSARY 

The hours I spent with thee, dear heart, 

Are as a string of pearls to me; 
I count them over, every one apart, 
My rosary. 

Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer, 

To still a heart in absence wrung; 

I tell each bead unto the end and there 

A cross is hung. 

Oh memories that bless — and burn ! 
Oh barren gain — and bitter loss ! 
I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learn 
To kiss the cross. 
Sweetheart, 

To kiss the cross. 



l^ancc €j)omp^on 



SYMBOLS 



Green grew the reeds and pale they were, 
And all the sunless grass was gray; 
The sluggish coils of marsh-water 
Dripped thickly over root and stone; 
In the deep woods there was no day. 
No day within them, shine or sun, — 
Only the night alway. 

And evermore the cypresses 
Against the cold sky rocked and swung; 
The lurching of the high, black trees, 
Their sprawling black tops tossed and flung 
Against the sky. She made a hut 
Of dripping stone and wattled clay. 
And the small window-space was shut 
With woven reeds, green and gray. 

The comely stars paced soberly 
In the blue gardens overhead, 



And morn and eve the housing sky 
Shifted in blue and gold and red; 
But She who dwelt in the stone hut 
Knew not these things ; on gathered 

knees 
She leaned her face, her thick hair shut 
Her from the stars and trees. 



LINEN BANDS 

I WEEP those dead lips, white and dry, 
On which no kisses lie, 
Those eyes deserted of desire, 
And love's soft fire. 

I weep the folded feet and hands, 

Held fast in linen bands; 

Still heart, cold breasts, — for them my 

dole: 
God hath the soul. 



692 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



^Ha j^iggin^on 



BEGGARS 1 



Child with the hungry eyes, 
The pallid mouth and brow, 

And the lifted, asking hands, 
I am more starved than thou. 

I beg not on the street; 

But where the sinner stands. 
In secret place, I beg 

Of God, with outstretched hands. 

As thou hast asked of me. 

Raising thy downcast head, 
So have I asked of Him, 

So, trembling, have I plead. 

Take this and go thy way; 

Thy hunger shall soon cease. 
Thou prayest but for bread. 

And I, alas ! for peace. 

MOONRISE IN THE ROCKIES ^ 

The trembling train clings to the leaning 
wall 

Of solid stone; a thousand feet below 
Sinks a black gulf; the sky hangs like a pall 

Upon the peaks of everlasting snow. 

Then of a sudden springs a rim of light. 
Curved like a silver sickle. High and 
higher — 
Till the full moon burns on the breast of 
night. 
And a million firs stand tipped with 
lucent fire. 

THE LAMP IN THE WEST^ 

Venus has lit her silver lamp 

Low in the purple West, 
Casting a soft and mellow light 

Upon the sea's full breast; 
In one clear path — as if to guide 

Some pale, wayfaring guest. 

Far out, far out the restless bar 

Starts from a troubled sleep. 
Where, roaring through the narrow straits, 

The meeting waters leap; 
But still that shining pathway leads 

Across the lonely deep. 



When I sail out the narrow straits 
Where unknown dangers be, 

And cross the troubled, moaning bar 
To the mysterious sea. 

Dear God, wilt thou not set a lamp 
Low in the West for me ? 

THE GRAND RONDE VALLEY^ 

Ah, me ! I know how like a golden 

flower 
The Grand Ronde valley lies this August 

night. 
Locked in by dimpled hills where purple 

light 
Lies wavering. There at the sunset hour 
Sink downward, like a rainbow-tinted 

shower, 
A thousand colored rays, soft, changeful, 

bright. 
Later the large moon rises, round and white, 
And three Blue Mountain pines against it 

tower. 
Lonely and dark. A coyote's mournful cry 
Sinks from the caiion, — whence the river 

leaps 
A blade of silver underneath the moon. 
Like restful seas the yellow wheat-fields lie, 
Dreamless and still. And while the valley 

sleeps, 
O hear ! — the lullabies that low winds 



FOUR-LEAF CLOVER 1 

I KNOW a place where the sun is like gold, 
And the cherry blooms burst with snow. 

And down underneath is the loveliest 
nook. 
Where the four-leaf clovers grow. 

One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith, 
And one is for love, you know. 

And God put another in for luck, — 

If you search, you will find where they 
grow. 

But you must have hope, and you must 
have faith. 
You must love and be strong — and so, 
If you work, if you wait, you will find the 
place 
Where the four-leaf clovers grow. 



Copyright, 1898, by The Macmillan Company. 



I 



ELLA HIGGINSON — BANGS — JEWETT 



693 



3loS)ii Hcnbricfe 25ang^ 



TO A WITHERED ROSEi 

Thy span of life was all too short — 

A week or two at best — 
From budding-time, through blossoming, 

To withering and rest. 

Yet compensation hast thou — aye ! — 

For all thy little woes; 
For was it not thy happy lot 

To live and die a rose ? 



MAY 30, 1893 1 

It seemed to be but chance, yet who shall 

say 
That 't was not part of Nature 's own sweet 

way, 

That on the field where once the cannon's 

breath 
Laid many a hero cold and stark in death, 



Some little children, in the after-years. 
Had come to play among the grassy spears, 

And, all unheeding, when their romp was 

done. 
Had left a wreath of wild flowers over one 

Who fought to save his country, and whose 

lot 
It was to die unknown and rest forgot ? 



THE LITTLE ELF 

I MET a little Elf-man, once, 
Down where the lilies blow. 

I asked him why he was so small 
And why he did n't grow. 

He slightly frowned, and with his eye 
He looked me through and through. 

" I 'm quite as big for me," said he, 
" As you are big for you." 



("ELLEN burroughs") 



"IF SPIRITS WALK" 2 

If spirits walk, love, when the night 

climbs slow 
The slant footpath where we were wont to 

go, 
Be sure that I shall take the selfsame way 
To the hill-crest, and shoreward, down 
the gray, 
Sheer, gravelled slope, where vetches strag- 
gling grow. 

Look for me not when gusts of winter blow, 
When at thy pane beat hands of sleet and 
snow; 
I would not come thy dear eyes to affray. 
If spirits walk. 

But when, in June, the pines are whisper- 
ing low, 

And when their breath plays with thy 
bright hair so 
1 Copyright, 1899, by Habpbb & Bkotheks. 



As some one's fingers once were used to 

play — 
That hour when birds leave song, and 
children pray, 
Keep the old tryst, sweetheart, and thou 
shalt know 

If spirits walk. 



ARMISTICE^ 

The water sings along our keel. 

The wind falls to a whispering breath ; 

I look into your eyes and feel 
No fear of life or death; 

So near is love, so far away 

The losing strife of yesterday. 

We watch the swallow skim and dip; 

Some magic bids the world be still; 
Life stands with finger upon lip; 

Love hath his gentle will; 

2 Copyright, 1896, by The Macmillan Company. 



694 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



Though hearts have bled, and tears have 

burued, 
The river floweth unconcerned. 

We pray the fickle flag of truce 
Still float deceitfully and fair; 

Our eyes must love its sweet abuse; 
This hour we will not care, 

Though just beyond to-morrow's gate, 

Arrayed and strong, the battle wait. 

SONGi 

Thy face I have seen as one seeth 

A face in a dream, 
Soft drifting before me as drifteth 

A leaf on the stream: 
A face such as evermore fleeth 

From following feet, 
A face such as hideth and shifteth 

Evasive and sweet. 

Thy voice I have heard as one heareth. 

Afar and apart, 
The wood-thrush that rapturous poureth 

The song of his heart; 
Who heedeth is blest, but who neareth. 

In wary pursuit. 
May see where the singer upsoareth, 

The forest is mute. 

WHEN NATURE HATH BE- 
TRAYED THE HEART THAT 
LOVED HERi 

The gray waves rock against the gray sky- 
line. 
And break complaining on the long gray 

sand, 
Here where I sit, who cannot understand 
Their voice of pain, nor this dumb pain of 
mine; 



For I, who thought to fare till my days 
end. 
Armed sorrow-proof in sorrow, having 

known 
How hearts bleed slow when brave lips 
make no moan. 
How Life can torture, how Death may be- 
friend 

When Love entreats him hasten, — even 

I, 

Who feared no human anguish that may 

be, 
I cannot bear the loud grief of the 

sea, 
I cannot bear the still grief of the sky. 



A SMILING DEMON OF NOTRE 
DAMEi 

Quiet as are the quiet skies 
He watches where the city lies 
Floating in vision clear or dim 
Through sun or rain beneath his eyes; 
Her songs, her laughter, and her cries 
Hour after hour drift up to him. 

Her days of glory or disgrace 

He watches with unchanging face; 

He knows what midnight crimes are 

done. 
What horrors under summer sun; 
And souls that pass in holy death 
Sweep by him on the morning's breath. 

Alike to holiness and sin 

He feels nor alien nor akin; 

Five hundred creeping mortal years 

He smiles on human joy and tears. 

Man-made, immortal, scorning man; 

Serene, grotesque Olympian. 



€talecn Mtin 



BUDDING-TIME TOO BRIEF 

LITTLE buds, break not so fast ! 

The spring 's but new. 

The slues will yet be brighter blue. 

And sunny too. 

1 would you might thus sweetly last 



Till this glad season 's overpast, 
Nor hasten through. 

It is so exquisite to feel 
The light warm sun; 
To merely know the winter done, 
And life begun; 



1 Copyright, 1896, by The Macmillan Company. 



SOPHIE JEWETT- 


-EVALEEN STEIN 695 


And to my heart no blooms appeal 


Come cascades of cathedral chimes; 


For tenderness so deep and real, 


And prayerful figures worship low, 


As any one 


In Mexico. 


Of these first April buds, that hold 


A land of lutes and witching tones, 


The hint of spring's 


Of silver, onyx, opal stones; 


Rare perf ectness that May-time brings. 


A lazy land, wherein all seems 


So take not wings ! 


Enchanted into endless dreams; 


Oh, linger, linger, nor unfold 


And never any need they know, 


Too swiftly though the mellow mould, 


In Mexico, 


Sweet growing things ! 






Of life's unquiet, swift advance; 


And errant birds, and honey-bees, 


But slipped into such gracious trance, 


Seek not to wile ; 


The restless world speeds on, un- 


And, sun, let not your warmest smile 


felt. 


Quite yet beguile 


Unheeded, as by those who dwelt 


The young peach-boughs and apple-trees 


In olden ages, long ago, 


To trust their beauty to the breeze; 


In Mexico. 


Wait yet awhile ! 






IN YOUTH 


IN MEXICO 






Not lips of mine have ever said: 


The cactus towers, straight and tall, 


" Would God that I were dead ! " 


Through fallow fields of chapparal; 


Nay, cruel griefs ! ye cannot break 


And here and there, in paths apart, 


My love of life; nor can ye make 


A dusky peon guides his cart, 


Oblivion blest in any wise, 


And yokes of oxen journey slow, 


Nor death seem sweet for sorrow's 


In Mexico. 


sake. 




Life ! life ! my every pulse outcries 


And oft some distant tinkling tells 


For life, and love, and quickened 


Of muleteers, with wagon bells 


breath. 


That jangle sweet across the maize, 


God, — not, not for death ! 


And green agave stalks that raise 




Rich spires of blossoms, row on row, 




In Mexico. 


FLOOD-TIME ON THE 




MARSHES 


Upon the whitened city walls 


-' 


The golden sunshine softly falls. 


Dear marshes, by no hand of man 


On archways set with orange trees. 


Laboriously sown, 


On paven courts and balconies 


My river clasps you in its arms 


Where trailing vines toss to and fro. 


And claims you for its own ! 


In Mexico. 


It laughs, and laughs, and twinkles on 




Across the reedy soil. 


And patient little donkeys fare 


That heed of harvest vexes not, 


With laden saddle-bags, and bear 


Nor need of any toil. 


Through narrow ways quaint water-jars 




Wreathed round with waxen lily stars 


And in my heart I joy to know 


And scarlet poppy-buds that blow, 


That safe within this spot 


In Mexico. 


Sweet nature reigns; let other fields 




Bear bread, it matters not. 


When twilight falls, more near and clear 


— What matters aught of anything 


The tender southern skies appear. 


When one may drift away 


And down green slopes of blooming 


Into the realms of all-delight, 


limes 


As I drift on to-day ? 



696 CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 


Beneath the budded swamp-rose sprays 


Where water-oaks are thickly strung 


The blue-eyed grasses stand, 


With green and golden balls, 


Submerged within a crystal world, 


And from tall tilting iris tips 


A limpid wonderland; 


The wild canary calls. 


And where the clustered sedges show 




Their silky-tasselled sheaves, 


— gracious world ! I seem to feel 


The slender arrow-lily lifts 


A kinship with the trees; 


Its quiver of green leaves. 


I am ftrst-cousin to the marsh, 




A sister to the breeze ! 


The tiny waves lap softly past, 


My heartstrings tremble to its touch, 


So musical and round, 


In throbs supremely sweet. 


I think they must be moulded out 


And through my pulses light and life 


Of sunshine and sweet sound. 


And love divinely meet. 


And here and there some little knoll, 




More lofty than the rest. 


Far ofP, the sunbeams smite the woods, 


Stands out above the happy tide, 


And pearly fleeces sail 


An island of the blest; 


Athwart the light, and leave below 




A purple-shadowed trail; 


Where fringed with lacy fronds of fern 


The essence of the perfect June 


The grass grows rich and high, 


So subtly is distilled. 


And flowering spider-worts have caught 


Until my very soul of souls 


The color of the sky; 


Is filled, and overfilled ! 



(LUCY CATLIN BULL) 



THE FIRE r THE FLINT 

The sudden thrust of speech is no mean 

test 
Of man or woman. Caesar, with his cry 
Of anguish, — Pilate, putting justice by, — 
Into three words a human soul compressed ; 
Three broke from Galileo's brooding breast; 
And Desdemona, instant to reply, 
" Nobody — I myself," is by that lie 
In all her purity made manifest. 
But Tito, Tito, standing so secure, — 
Tito, the idol of the market-place. 
Who muttering to himself, " Some mad- 
man, sure ! " 
Could look his stricken father in the face. 
From a yet deeper well his falsehood drew, 
And lived more base than that young wife 
died true. 

"HIC ME, PATER OPTIME, FES- 
SAM DESERIS" 

Ere yet in Vergil I could scan or spell, 
Or throvTgh the enchanted portal of that 
lay 



Dear to old Rome had found my faltering 

way, 
How oft with heaving breast I heard thee 

tell 
Of horrors that the Trojan fleet befell: 
How for a time they were the tempest's 

prey. 
And how at last into a little bay 
Their boats came gliding on the peaceful 

swell. 
There, though thick shade might threaten 

from above. 
Were rest and peace, nor any need to 

roam. 
Alas ! I did not dream how soon for thee. 
Best father, sweetest friend, the quiet 

cove 
Would stretch its arms, while I, half blind 

with foam, 
Should still be tossing on the open sea. 

A BALLADE OF ISLANDS 

I WOULD I had been island-born. 
I dearly love things insular: 
The coral bed, the quaint bazaar, 



LUCY ROBINSON — OLIVER HERFORD 



697 



The palm and breadfruit never shorn, 
The smoking cone that cannot char 
The azure of a tropic morn, 
The dancing girl in soft cymar, — 
All these such lures, such wonders are - 
Oh, why was I not island-born ? 

In island crossed of Capricorn — 
In Otaheite, wild Happar — 
Lurk all the powers that make or mar. 
The ogress, wrinkled like a Norn, 
The parrot-fish, the nenuphar, 
The tides that leave in quiet scorn 
The moon out of their calendar, 
Miranda's cave, Nausicaa's car, — 
All these are for the island-born. 



'T was on a far-off isle forlorn 
That Haidee wore her golden bar, 
Virginia seemed a drifted spar, 
Rarahu's loving heart was torn, 
Sweet Allan Bane, in peace and war, 
Awoke St. Modan's harp outworn. 
And Graziella her guitar; 
She bore the brimming water-jar 
Not grieving to be island-born. 



Prince, on three islands, sundered far. 
Thine were life's flower, its husk, its thorn. 
Ripe grew thy wrath on Elba's scar. 
In St. Helena sank thy star. 
Napoleon, thou wast island-born ! 



<0UlJcr i^erforti 



PROEM 



If this little world to-night 

Suddenly should fall through space 
In a hissing, headlong flight. 

Shrivelling from off its face, 
As it falls into the sun. 

In an instant every trace 
Of the little crawling things — 

Ants, philosophers, and lice. 
Cattle, cockroaches, and kings. 

Beggars, millionaires, and mice, 
Men and maggots, — all as one 

As it falls into the sun, — 
Who can say but at the same 

Instant from some planet far 
A child may watch us and exclaim: 

" See the pretty shooting star ! " 

A BELATED VIOLET 

Very dark the autumn sky. 

Dark the clouds that hurried by; 

Very rough the autumn breeze 
Shouting rudely to the trees. 

Listening, frightened, pale^ and cold. 
Through the withered leaves and mould 

Peered a violet all in dread — 

" Where, oh, where is spring ? " she said. 

Sighed the trees, " Poor little thing \ 
She may call in vain for spring." 

And the grasses whispered low, 
"We must never let her know." 



" What 's this whispering ? " roared the 
breeze ; 
" Hush ! a violet," sobbed the trees, 
" Thinks it 's spring, — poor child, we 
fear 
She will die if she should hear ! " 

Softly stole the wind away. 

Tenderly he murmured, " Stay ! " 

To a late thrush on the wing, 

" Stay with her one day and sing ! " 

Sang the thrush so sweet and clear 
That the sun came out to hear, 

And, in answer to her song. 
Beamed on violet all day longj 

And the last leaves here and there 
Fluttered with a spring-like air. 

Then the violet raised her head, — 
" Spring has come at last ! " she said. 

Happy dreams had violet 

All that night — but happier yet. 

When the dawn came dark with snow, 
Violet never woke t© know. 



WHY 



YE BLOSSOME COMETH 
BEFORE YE LEAFE 



Once hoary Winter chanced — alas f 

Alas I hys waye mistaking — 

A leafless apple-tree to pass 

Where Spring lay dreaming. " Fie, ye lass ! 



698 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



Ye lass had best be waking," 




Sudden the wee Elf 


Quoth he, and shook hys robe, and, lo '. 




Smiled a wee smile. 


Lo ! forth didde flye a cloud of suowe. 




Tugged till the toadstool 


Now in ye bough an elfe there dwelte, 




Toppled in two. 


Au elfe of wondroTis powere. 




Holding it over him, 


That when ye chillye snowe didde pelte, 




Gayly he flew. 


With magic charm each flake didde 






nielte. 




Soon he was safe home, 


Didde melte into a flowere; 




Dry as could be. 


And Spring didde wake and marvelle 




Soon woke the Dormouse — 


how, 




" Good gracious me ! 


How blossomed so ye leafless bough. 




" Where is my toadstool ? " 
Loud he lamented. 


THE ELF AND THE 




— And that 's how umbrellas 


DORMOUSE 




First were invented. 


Under a toadstool 






Crept a wee Elf, 




THE MON-GOOS 


Out of the rain. 






To shelter himself. 


This, Children, is the famed Mon-goos. 




He has 


an ap-pe-tite ab-struse: 


Under the toadstool. 


Strange 


to re-late, this crea-ture takes 


Sound asleep. 


A cu-ri 


-ous joy in eat-ing snakes — 


Sat a big Dormouse 


All kinds — though, it must be con-fessed, 


All in a heap. 


He likes the poi-son-ous ones the best. 




From h 


im we learn how ve-ry small 


Trembled the wee Elf, 


A thing 


can bring a-bout a Fall. 


Frightened, and yet 


Mon- 


-goos, where were you that day 


Fearing to fly away 


When Mistress Eve was led a-stray ? 


Lest he get wet. 


If you' 


d but seen the ser-pent first, 




Our parents would not have been cursed, 


To the next shelter — 


And so 


there would be no ex-cuse 


Maybe a mile ! 


For Milton, but for you — Mon-goos ! 



5fimelic €toufift$hop 



A MOODi 

It is good to strive against wind and rain 
In the keen, sweet weather that autumn 
brings. 
The wild horse shakes not the drops from 
his mane, 
The wild bird flicks not the wet from 
her wings. 
In gladder fashion than I toss free 

The mist-dulled gold of my bright hair's 

flag, 
What time the winds on their heel- wings 

And all the tempest is friends with me. 

1 Copyright, 1887, by 



None can reach me to wound or cheer; 

Sound of weeping and sound of song — 
Neither may trouble me : I can hear 

But the wind's loud laugh, and the sibi- 
lant, strong. 
Lulled rush of the rain through the sapless 
weeds. 

rare, dear days, ye are here again ! 

1 will woo ye as maidens are wooed of 

men, — 
With oaths forgotten and broken creeds ! 

Ye shall not lack for the sun's fierce shining — 
With the gold of my hair will I make ye 
glad; 
Harpek & Brothbes. ; 



AMfiLIE TROUBETZKOY — GERTRUDE PIALL 



699 



For your blown, red forests give no repin- 
ing — 
Here are my lips : will ye still be sad ? 

Comfort ye, comfort ye, days of cloud, 
Days of shadow, of wrath, of blast — 
I who love ye am come at last. 

Laugh to welcome me ! cry aloud ! 

For wild am I as thy winds and rains — 

Free to come and to go as they; 
Love's moon sways not the tides of my 
veins; 

There is no voice that can bid me stay. 
Out and away on the drenched, brown lea ! 

Out to the great, glad heart of the 
year ! 

Nothing to grieve for, nothing to fear, — 
Fetterless, lawless, a maiden free ! 



BEFORE THE RAIN^ 

The blackcaps pipe among the reeds, 
And there '11 be rain to follow; 

There is a murmur as of wind 
In every coign and hollow; 

The wrens do chatter of their fears 

While swinging on the barley-ears. 

Come, hurry, while there jet is time, 
Full up thy scarlet bonnet. 

Now, sweetheart, as my love is thine, 
There is a drop upon it. 



So trip it ere the storm-hag weird 
Doth pluck the barley by the beard ! 

Lo ! not a whit too soon we're housed; 

The storm-witch yells above us; 
The branches rapping on the panes 

Seem not in truth to love ns. 
And look where through the clover bush 
The nimble-footed rain doth rush ! 



A SONNET^ 

Take all of me, — I am thine own, heart, 

soul, 
Brain, body, — all; all that I am or dream 
Is thine forever; yea, though space should 

teem 
With thy conditions, I 'd fulfil the whole — 
Were to fulfil them to be loved of thee. 
Oh, love me ! — were to love me but a 

way 
To kill me — love me; so to die would be 
To live forever. Let me hear thee say 
Once only, " Dear, I love thee," — then all 

life 
Would be one sweet remembrance, thou iU 

king: 
Nay, thou art that already, and the strife 
Of twenty worlds could not uncrown thee 

Bring, 
O Time ! my monarch to possess his thron,- 
Which is my heart and for himself alone. 



(<B>etttutic I^all 



MRS. GOLIGHTLY 

The time is come to speak, I think: 

For on the square I met 

My beauteous widow, fresh and pink, 
Her black gown touched at every brink 

With tender violet; 

And at her throat the white crepe lisse 

Spoke, in a fluffy bow, 
Of woe that should perhaps ne'er cease - 
(Peace to thy shade, Golightly, peace !) 

Yet mitigated woe. 

In her soft eye, that used to scan 
The ground, nor seem to see, 

1 Copyright, 1887, by Harper & Bkothbhs. 



The hazel legend sweetly ran, 
" I could not wht)lly hate a man 
For quite adoring me." 

And when she drew her 'kerchief fine, 

A hint of heliotrope 
Its snow edged with an inky line 
Exhaled, — from which scent you di' 
vine 

Through old regrets new hope. 

And then her step, so soft and slow, 

She scarcely seemed to lift 
From off the sward her widowed toe, — 
One year, one little year ago ! — 

So soft yet, yet so swift; 

2 Copyright, 1886, by Harper & Brothers. 



700 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



Then, too, her blush, her side glance coy, 


And it is Beauty's golden hair, 


Tell me in easy Greek 


And it is Genius' crown of bay, 


(I wonder could her little boy 


And it is lips once warm and fair 


Prove source of serious annoy ?) 


That kissed in some forgotten May. . . . 


The time has come to speak. 






MY OLD COUNSELOR 


ANGELS 






The Sun looked from his everlasting 


How shall we tell an angel 


skies. 


From another guest ? 


He laughed into my daily-dying eyes ; 


How, from the common worldly herd, 


He said to me, the brutal shining Sun: 


One of the blest ? 


" Poor, fretful, hot, rebellious, little one ! 


Hint of suppressed halo, 


" Thou shalt not find it, yet there shall be 


Rustle of hidden wings, 


truth ; 


Wafture of heavenly frankincense, — 


Thou shalt grow old, but yet there shall be 


Which of these things ? 


youth; 




Thou shalt not do, yet great deeds shall be 


The old Sphinx smiles so subtly: 


done, — 


" I give no golden rule, — 


Believe me, child, I am an old, old Sun ! 


Yet would I warn thee. World: treat well 




Whom thou call'st fool." 


" Thou mayst go blind, yet fair will bloom 




the spring; 




Thou mayst not hear them, but the birds 


THE DUST 


will sing; 




Thou mayst despair, no less will hope be 


It settles softly on your things, 


rife; 


Impalpable, fine, light, dull, gray: 


Thou must lie dead, but many will have 


Her dingy dust-clout Betty brings, 


life. 


And singing brushes it away: 






" Thou mayst declare of love: it is a dream ! 


And it 's a queen's robe, once so proud, 


Yet long with love, my love, the Earth will 


And it 's the moths fed in its fold. 


teem: 


It 's leaves, and roses, and the shroud 


Let not thy foolish heart be borne so low, — 


Wherein an ancient saint was rolled. 


Lift up thy heart ! Exult that it is so ! " 



Elaine <iBootiaIe aEa^sftman 



A COUNTRYWOMAN OF MINE 

Handsome ? I hardly know. Her profile 's 

fine — 
Delightful, intellectual, aquiline. 

Her keen eyes light it; keen, yet often 

kind; 
Her fair hair crowns it to an artist's mind. 

Fine figure and fine manners, without doubt, 
Determine half her charm, and bear me 
out. 



Learned ? Well, rather. See them for 

yourself — 
Mill, Spencer, Darwin, on her favorite 

shelf. 

Well educated, certainly well read; 
Well born, of course, and (not of course) 
well bred. 

Provincial ? Never ! Cockney ? Not at 

all. 
Her world is small enough, yet not too 

&mall. 



ELAINE GOODALE EASTMAN — WINIFRED HOWELLS 701 



To prove slie knows it, only watch a 

while 
That humorous, tender, half - sarcastic 

smile. 

Accomplished ? She says not; but who 

can tell ? 
She does some simple things, and does 

them well. 

She walks well, stands well, sits well — 

things so rare. 
To praise as they deserve I hardly dare ! 

She rows, rides, dances — admirably 

done ! 
Delights in each, and yet depends on 

none. 

What to take up she knows, and what to 

drop; 
How to say clever things, and when to stop. 

Few dress so well; she does what few can 

do. 
Forgets what she has on ; and so do you ? 

She 's not too careless, not conventional 

quite ; 
Does what she likes; knows what she does 

is right. 

Takes New World freedom and with Old 

World ease; 
She 's but to please herself the world to 

please. 



ASHES OF ROSES 

Soft on the sunset sky 

Bright daylight closes. 
Leaving, when light doth die, 
Pale hues that mingling lie, — 

Ashes of roses. 

When love's warm sun is set, 

Love's brightness closes; 
Eyes with hot tears are wet, 
In hearts there linger yet 
Ashes of roses. 

BABY 

Dimpled and flushed knd dewy pink he lies, 
Crumpled and tossed and lapt ii#snowy 

bands ; 
Aimlessly reaching with his tiny hands, 
Lifting in wondering gaze his great blue 

eyes. 
Sweet pouting lips, parted by breathing 

sighs; 
Soft cheeks, warm-tinted as from tropic 

lands; 
Framed with brown hair in shining silken 

strands, — 
All fair, all pure, a sunbeam from the skies ! 
O perfect innocence ! O soul enshrined 
In blissful ignorance of good or ill, 
By never gale of idle passion crossed ! 
Although thou art no alien from thy kind. 
Though pain and death may take thee cap- 
tive, still 
Through sin, at least, thine Eden is not lost. 



IBinifreti ^o\xtt\\0 



FORTHFARING 

I TRIPPED along a narrow way, 
Plucking the same flowers, day by day; 
The sun which round about me lay 
Had never seemed to sink. 

But now at once the path divides; 
I see new flowers bloom on all sides; 
I stop, while doubt the sun half hides: 
I have begun to think. 



THE POET AND THE CHILD 

"And you. Sir Poet, shall you make, I 
pray. 
This child a poet with that insight 

rare 
They tell me poets have, that every- 
where 
He sees new beauties lost to common 
clay?" 



702 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



" Nay," said the poet, " rather lend the 

Your scarf of gauze, to veil his question- 
ing eye, 

Lest in his pleasure he should aught 
descry 
But what is fair; so shall he much enjoy." 

She lightly laughed as she regained the 
band 
Now strolling on (to her it seemed a 

jest 
Turned for her pleasure) ; but behind the 
rest 
The poet and the child walked hand in 
hand. 



A WASTED SYMPATHY 

Do not waste your pity, friend, 
When you see me weep as now; 

Keep it to some better end. 

When dry-eyed I went about 
With a leaden heart locked in 
By a silent tongue, ah ! then 
Had you brought it, it had been 

Sweet indeed to me; but now 
When the depths of my despair 

Are upheaved and through the por- 
tals 
Of my heart come free as air, 

It is useless. If you please. 

Give your thanks that to a woman 

Tears are given, and be at ease. 



^ PAST 

There, as she sewed, came floating through 

her head 
Odd bits of poems, learned in other days 
And long forgotten in the noisier ways 
Through which the fortunes of her life now 

led; 
And looking up, she saw upon the shelf 
In dusty rank her favorite poets stand, 
All uncaressed by her fond eye or hand; 
And her heart smote her, thinking how 

herself 
Had loved them once and found in them 

all good 
As well as beauty, filling every need ; 
But now they could not fill the emptiness 
Of heart she felt ev'n in her gayest mood. 
She wanted once no work her heart to feed, 
And to be idle once was no distress. 

A MOOD 

The wind exultant swept 
Through the new leaves overhead, 
Till at once my pulses leapt 
With a life I thought long dead, 
And I woke, as one who has slept, 
To my childhood, — that had not fled. 
On the wind my spirit flew; 
Its freedom was mine as well. 
For a moment the world was new; 
What came there to break the spell ? 
The wind still freshly blew; 
My spirit it was that fell. 



l!!icj)arti i^o^ep 



THE WANDER-LOVERS 

Down the world with Mama ! 
That 's the life for me ! 
Wandering with the wandering wind, 
Vagabond and unconfined ! 
Roving with the roving rain 
Its unboundaried domain ! 
Kith and kin of wander-kind, 
Children of the sea ! 

Petrels of the sea-drift ! 

Swallows of the lea ! 

Arabs of the whole wide girth 



Of the wind-encircled earth ! 
In all climes we pitch our tents, 
Cronies of the elements, 
With the secret lords of birth 
Intimate and free. 

All the seaboard knows us 
From Fundy to the Keys ; 
Every bend and every creek 
Of abundant Chesapeake; 
Ardise hills and Newport coves 
And the far-off orange groves, 
Where Floridian oceans break, 
Tropic tiger seas. 



RICHARD HOVEY 



703 



Down the world with Mama, 
Tarrying there and here ! 
Just as much at home in Spain 
As in Tangier or Touraine ! 
Shakespeare's Avon knows us well, 
And the crags of Neufchatel; 
And the ancient Nile is fain 
Of our eoming near. 

Down the world with Mama, 
Daughter of the air ! 
Marna of the subtle grace, 
And the vision in her face ! 
Moving in the measures trod 
By the angels before God ! 
With her sky-blue eyes amaze 
And her sea-blue hair ! 

Marna with the trees' life 
In her veins a-stir ! 
Marna of the aspen heart 
Where the sudden quivers start ! 
Quick-responsive, subtle, wild ! 
Artless as an artless child, 
Spite of all her reach of art ! 
Oh, to roam with her ! 

Marna with the wind's will, 
Daughter of the sea ! 
Marna of the quick disdain, 
Starting at the dream of stain ! 
At a smile with love aglow. 
At a frown a statued woe, 
Standing pinnacled in pain 
Till a kiss sets free ! 

Down the world with Marna, 
Daughter of the fire ! 
Mama of the deathless hope. 
Still alert to win new scope 
Where the wings of life may spread 
For a flight unhazarded ! 
Dreaming of the speech to cope 
With the heart's desire 1 

Marna of the far quest 
After the divine ! 
Striving ever for some goal 
Past the blunder-god's control ! 
Dreaming of potential years 
When no day shall dawn in fears ! 
That 's the Marna of my soul. 
Wander-bride of mine ! 



ENVOY 

TO " MORE SONGS FROM VAGABONDIA " 

I 

Whose furthest footstep never strayed 
Beyond the village of his birth 
Is but a lodger for the night 
In this old wayside inn of earth. 

To-morrow he shall take his pack, 
And set out for the ways beyond 
On the old trail from star to star, 
An alien and a vagabond. 



If any record of our names 
Be blown about the hills of time. 
Let no one sunder us in death, — 
The man of paint, the men of rhyme. 

Of all our good, of all our bad. 
This one thing only is of worth, — 
We held the league of heart to heart 
The only purpose of the earth. 

THE CALL OF THE BUGLES 

Bugles ! 

And the Great Nation thrills and leaps to 
arms ! 

Prompt, unconstrained, immediate, 

Without misgiving and without debate, 

Too calm, too strong for fury or alarms. 

The people blossoms armies and puts forth 

The splendid summer of its noiseless might; 

For the old sap of fight 

Mounts up in South and North, 

The thrill 

That tingled in our veins at Bunker Hill 

And brought to bloom July of 'Seventy- 
Six ! 

Pine and palmetto mix 

With the sequoia of the giant West 

Their ready banners, and the hosts of war. 

Near and far, 

Sudden as dawn, 

Innumerable as forests, hear the call 

Of the bugles. 

The battle-birds f 

For not alone the brave, the fortunate, 

Who first of all 

Have put their knapsacks on — 



704 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



They are the valiant vanguard of the 

• rest ! — 
Not they alone, but all our millions wait, 
Hand on sword, 
For the word 

That bids them bid the nations know us 
sons of Fate. 

Bugles ! 

And in my heart a cry, 

— Like a dim echo far and mournfully 

Blown back to answer them from yesterday ! 

A soldier's burial ! 

November hillsides and the falling leaves 

Where the Potomac broadens to the tide — 

The crisp autumnal silence and the gray 

(As of a solemn ritual 

Whose congregation glories as it grieves, 

Widowed but still a bride) — 

The long hills sloping to the wave, 

And the lone bugler standing by the grave ! 

Taps ! 

The lonely call over the lonely woodlands — 

Rising like the soaring of wings, 

Like the flight of an eagle — 

Taps! 

They sound forever in my heart. 

From farther still, 

The echoes — still the echoes ! 

The bugles of the dead 

Blowing from spectral ranks an answering 

cry ! 
The ghostly roll of immaterial drums, 
Beating reveille in the camps of dream, 
As from far meadows comes, 
Over the pathless hill, 
The irremeable stream. 
I hear the tread 

Of the great armies of the Past go by ; 
I hear. 

Across the wide sea wash of years between, 
Concord and Valley Forge shout back from 

the unseen, 
And Vicksburg give a cheer. 

Our cheer goes back to them, the valiant 

dead ! 
Laurels and roses on their graves to-day. 
Lilies and laurels over them we lay, 
And violets o'er each unforgotten head. 
Their honor still with the returning May 
Puts on its springtime in our memories, 
Nor till the last American with them lies 
Shall the young year forget to strew their 

bed. 



Peace to their ashes, sleep and honored 

rest ! 
But we — awake 1 
Ours to remember them with deeds like 

theirs ! 
From sea to sea the insistent bugle blares, 
The drums will not be still for any sake; 
And as an eagle rears his crest. 
Defiant, from some tall pine of the North, 
And spreads his wings to fly. 
The banners of America go forth 
Against the clarion sky. 
Veteran and volunteer. 
They who were comrades of that shadow 

host. 
And the young brood whose veins renew 

the fires 
That burned in their great sires, 
Alike we hear 

The summons sounding clear 
From coast to coast, — 
The cry of the bugles. 
The battle-birds ! 



Bugles ! 

The imperious bugles ! 

Still their call 

Soars like an exaltation to the sky. 

They call on men to fall, 

To die, — 

Remembered or forgotten, but a part 

Of the great beating of the Nation's heart! 

A call to sacrifice ! 

A call to victory ! 

Hark, in the Empyrean 

The battle-birds ! 

The bugles ! 



UNMANIFEST DESTINY 

To what new fates, my country, far 
And unforeseen of foe or friend, 

Beneath what unexpected star, 
Compelled to what unchosen end, 

Across the sea that knows no beach 
The Admiral of Nations guides 

Thy blind obedient keels to reach 
The harbor where thy future rides ! 

The guns that spoke at Lexington 

Knew not that God was planning then 

The trumpet word of Jefferson 
To bugle forth the rights of men. 



RICHARD HOVEY 



705 



To them that wept and cursed Bull Run, 
What was it but despair and shame ? 

Who saw behind the cloud the sun ? 
Who knew that God was in the flame ? 

Had not defeat upon defeat, 

Disaster on disaster come, 
The slave's emancipated feet 

Had never marched behind the drum. 

There is a Hand that bends our deeds 
To mightier issues than we planned. 

Each son that triumphs, each that bleeds, 
My country, serves Its dark command. 

I do not know beneath what sky 
Nor on what seas shall be thy fate; 

I only know it shall be high, 
I only know it shall be great. 

July, i8q8. 



LOVE IN THE WINDS 

When I am standing on a mountain crest, 
Or hold the tiller in the dashing spray. 
My love of you leaps foaming in my breast. 
Shouts with the winds and sweeps to their 

foray; 
My heart bounds with the horses of the 

sea. 
And plunges in the wild ride of the night. 
Flaunts in the teeth of tempest the large 

glee 
That rides out Fate and welcomes gods to 

fight. 
Ho, love, I laugh aloud for love of you. 
Glad that our love is fellow to rough wea- 
ther, — 
No fretful orchid hothoused from the dew. 
But hale and hardy as the highland heather, 
Rejoicing in the wind that stings and 

thrills, 
Comrade of ocean, playmate of the hills. 



DARTMOUTH WINTER-SONG 

Ho, a song by the fire ! 
(Pass the pipes, fill the bowl !) 
Ho, a song by the fire ! 
— With a skoal ! . . . 

For the wolf wind is whining in the door- 
ways, 
And the snow drifts deep along the road. 



And the ice-gnomes are marching from 
their Norways, 

And the great white cold walks abroad. 

(Boo-00-0 ! pass the bowl !) 
For here by the fire 
We defy frost and storm. 
Ha, ha ! we are warm 
And we have our hearts' desire; 
For here's four good fellows 
And the beechwood and the bellows. 
And the cup is at the lip 
In the pledge of fellowship. 
Skoal ! 



LAURANA'S SONG 

FOR "A LADY OF VENICE" 

Who 'll have the crumpled pieces of a 
heart ? 

Let him take mine ! 

Who '11 give his whole of passion for a part, 

And call 't divine ? 

Who '11 have the soiled remainder of de- 
sire ? 

Who '11 warm his fingers at a burnt-out 
fire? 

Who '11 drink the lees of love, and cast i' 
the mire 

The nobler wine ? 

Let him come here, and kiss me on the 

mouth. 
And have his will ! 

Love dead and dry as summer in the South 
When winds are still, 
And all the leafage shrivels in the heat ! 
Let him come here and linger at my feet 
Till he grow weary with the over-sweet. 
And die, or kill. 



FROM "THE BIRTH OF 
GALAHAD " 

ylen's song 

And if he should come again 
In the old glad way, 
I should smile and take his hand. 
What were there to say ? 

I should close my eyes and smile, 
And my soul would be 
Like the peace of summer noons 
Beside the sea. 



7o6 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



FROM "TALIESIN: A MASQUE" 


But not for these 




Will I let me die. 


Voices of Unseen Spirits 


Though my heart remembers 




The calling seas; 


Here falls no light of sun nor stars; 


For the cycles fought 


No stir nor striving here intrudes; 


Till form was wrought 


No moan nor merry-making mars 


And Might had members 


The quiet of these solitudes. 


And I was I. 


Submerged in sleep, the passive soul 


Yet still to you. 


Is one with all the things that seem; 


Dreams, I turn; 


Night blurs in one confused whole 


Not with a prayer 


Alike the dreamer and the dream. 


But a bidding to do ! 




I surmount and subdue you; 


dwellers in the busy town ! 


Not without you but through 


For dreams you smile, for dreams you 


you 


weep. 


I shall forge and fare 


Come out, and lay your burdens down ! 


To the chosen bourne. 


Come out; there is no God but Sleep. 






Voices 


Sleep, and renounce the vital day; 




For evil is the child of life. 


We are ware of a will 


Let be the will to live, and pray 


Cries " Peace, be still ! " 


To find forgetfulness of strife. 


And our waters cease 




To a troubled peace. 


Beneath the thicket of these leaves 




No light discriminates each from each. 


Taliesin 


No Self that wrongs, no Self that grieves, 




Hath longer deed nor creed nor speech. 


Lo, star upon star ! 




They dwell alone 


Sleep on the mighty Mother's breast ! 


Sirius, Altair, 


Sleep, and no more be separate ! 


Algebar ! 


Then, one with Nature's ageless rest, 


Their ways are asunder, — 


There shall be no more sin to hate. 


Aloof, in thunder 




They march and flare 


Taliesin 


From zone to zone. 


Spirits of Sleep, 


But the formless ether 


That swell and sink 


Far and far 


In the sea of Being 


Enfolds their places. 


Like waves on the deep, 


Therein together 


Forming, crumbling, 


At one they sweep 


Fumbling, and tumbling 


From deep to deep, 


Forever, unseeing. 


And over its spaces 


From brink to brink ! 


Star calls to star. 


Perishing voices, 


Through its waves they reach 


That call and call 


Beyond their spheres 


From the coves of dream 


To their fellow fires. 


With hollow noises ! 


Each yearns to each, 


I hear the sweep 


And the straight wills swerve 


Of the tides of sleep. 


To a yielding curve. 


The ocean stream 


And a moth's desires 


Where the ages fall. 


Deflect the years. 



RICHARD HOVEY — JULIE MATHILDE LIPPMANN 707 



And with urge on urge 


At its own control; 


Of the rippling wave 


But dumb, unseeing, 


Light speeds through space; 


The sea of Being 


The domes emerge; 


Washes the peaks 


And the halls of Night 


Where it strives alone. 


Behold each light 




Reveal his face 


Voices 


To the vast conclave. 






As the dawn awaits 


The centred Soul 


The recoiling gates 


By these is known. 


Of the eastern air, 


Its will it wreaks 


We are calm and hear. 



2FuIi0 !3r9atJ)ilt!e ^ipjjmann 



LOVE AND LIFE 

" Give me a fillet, Love," quoth I, 
" To bind my Sweeting's heart to me. 
So ne'er a chance of earth or sky 
Shall part us ruthlessly: 
A fillet. Love, but not to chafe 
My Sweeting's soul, to cause her paiii; 
But just to bind her close and safe 
Through snow and blossom and sun and rain: 
A fillet, boy ! " 
Love said, " Here 's joy.'! 

" Give me a fetter. Life," quoth I, 
" To bind to mine my Sweeting's heart, 
So Death himself must fail to pry 
With Time the two apart: 
A fetter. Life, that each shall wear. 
Whose precious bondage each shall know. 
I prithee. Life, no more forbear — 
Why dost thou wait and falter so ? 
Haste, Life — be brief ! " 
Said Life: — " Here 's grief." 



STONE WALLS 

Along the country roadside, stone on stone, 
Past waving grain-field, and near broken 

stile. 
The walls stretch onward, an uneven pile. 
With rankling vines and lichen overgrown: 
So stand they sentinel. Unchanged, alone. 
They 're left to watch the seasons' passing 

slow: 
The summer's sunlight or the winter's snow, 



The spring-time's birdling, or the autumn's 

moan. 
Who placed the stones now gray with many 

years ? 
And did the rough hands tire, the sore 

hearts ache. 
The eyes grow dim with all their weight of 

tears ? 
Or did the work seem light for some dear 

sake ? 
Those lives are over. All their hopes and 

fears 
Are lost like shadows in the morning-break. 



THE PINES 

Throughout the soft and sunlit day 
The pennoned pines, in strict array. 
Stand grim and silent, gaunt and gray. 

But when the blasts of winter keen, 
They whisper each to each, and lean 
Like comrades with a bond between. 

And seeing them deport them so. 
One almost thinks they seek to show 
How mortal-like mere trees may grow. 

For men, in peace time, stand aloof, 
One from the other, asking proof 
Of lineage and race and roof. 

But let the blast of battle call, — 

Lo ! they 're unquestioning comrades all, 

Who side by side will stand or fall. 



7o8 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



^ath a. 2DC mulit i^otoe 



THE TRAVELLERS 

They made them ready and we saw them 

go 
Out of our very lives; 
Yet this world holds them all, 
And soon it must befall 
That we shall know 

How this one fares, how that one thrives; 
And one day — who knows when ? 
Tliey shall be with us here again. 

Another traveller left us late 

Whose life was as the soul of ours; 

A stranger guest went with him to the gate, 

And closed it breathing back a breath of 

flowers. 
And what the eyes we loved now look upon. 
What industries the hands employ, 
In what new speech the tongue hath joy. 
We may not know — until one day, 
And then another, as our toil is done, 
The same still guest shall visit us, 
And one by one 

Shall take us by the hand and say, 
" Come with me to the country marvellous. 
Where he has dwelt so long beyond your 

sight. 
'T were idle waiting for his own return 
That ne'er shall be ; face the perpetual light, 
And with him learn 



Whate'er the heavens unfold of knowledge 
infinite." 

Each after each then shall we rise. 

And follow through the stranger's secret 
gate. 

And we shall ask and hear, beyond sur- 
mise, 

What glorious life is his, since desolate 

We stood about the bed 

Where our blind eyes looked down on him 
as dead. 



DISTINCTION 

The village sleeps, a name unknown, till 
men 
With life-blood stain its soil, and pay the 
due 
That lifts it to eternal fame, — for then 
'T is grown a Gettysburg or Waterloo. 



"WHOM THE GODS LOVE" 

"Whom the gods love die young;" — if 
gods ye be, 
Then generously might ye have spared 
to us 
One from your vast unnumbered overplus. 
One youth we loved as tenderly as ye. 



St^alii^on CaiDcm 



PROEM 



There is no rhyme that is half so sweet 
As the song of the wind in the rippling 

wheat; 
There is no metre that 's half so fine 
As the lilt of the brook under rock and vine; 
And the loveliest lyric I ever heard 
Was the wildwood strain of a forest bird. — 
If the wind and the brook and the bird 

would teach 
My heart their beautiful parts of speech. 
And the natural art that they say these 

with. 
My soul would sing of beauty and myth 
In a rhyme and a metre that none before 



Have sung in their love, or dreamed in 

their lore, 
And the world would be richer one poet 

the more. 



THE RAIN-CROW 

Can freckled August, — drowsing warm 
and blonde 
Beside a wheat-shock in the white-topped 
mead. 
In her hot hair the oxeyed daisies wound, — 
O bird of rain, lend aught but sleepy heed 
To thee ? when no plumed weed, no fea- 
ther'd seed 



MARK A. DE WOLFE HOWE — MADISON CAWEIN 



709 



Blows by her; and no ripple breaks the 
pond, 
That gleams like flint between its rim of 

grasses, 
Through which the dragonfly forever 
passes 

Like splintered diamond. 

Drouth weights the trees, and from the 
farmhouse eaves 
The locust, pulse-beat of the summer 
day. 
Throbs; and the lane, that shambles under 
leaves 
Limp with the heat — a league of rutty 

way — 
Is lost in dust ; and sultry scents of 
hay 
Breathe from the panting meadows heaped 
with sheaves. 
Now, now, O bird, what hint is there of 

rain, 
In thirsty heaven or on burning plain, 
That thy keen eye perceives ? 

But thou art right. Thou prophesiest true. 
For hardly hast thou ceased thy forecast- 
ing. 
When, up the western fierceness of 
scorched blue, 
Great water-carrier winds their buckets 

bring 
Brimming with freshness. How their 
dippers ring 
And flash and rumble ! lavishing dark dew 
On corn and forestland, that, streaming 

wet, 
Their hilly backs against the downpour 
set, 

Like giants vague in view. 

The butterfly, safe under leaf and flower. 
Has found a roof, knowing how true thou 
art; 
The bumble-bee, within the last half-hour, 
Has ceased to hug the honey to its heart; 
While in the barnyard, under shed and 
cart. 
Brood-hens have housed. — But I, who 
scorned thy power. 
Barometer of the birds, — like August 

there, — 
Beneath a beech, dripping from foot to 
hair, 

Like some drenched truant, cower. 



TO A WIND-FLOWER 

Teach me the secret of thy loveliness. 
That, being made wise, I may aspire 
• to be 

As beautiful in thought, and so express 
Immortal truths to earth's mortality; 

Though to my soul ability be less 
Than 't is to thee, O sweet anemone. 

Teach me the secret of thy innocence, 
That in simplicity I may grow wise, 
Asking from Art no other recompense 
Than the approval of her own just 
eyes; 
So may I rise to some fair eminence. 
Though less than thine, O cousin of the 
skies. 

Teach me these things, through whose high 
knowledge, I, — 
When Death hath poured oblivion 
through my veins, 
And brought me home, as all are brought, 
to lie 
In that vast house, common to serfs and 
Thanes, — 
I shall not die, I shall not utterly die, 
For beauty born of beauty — that remains. 



DEATH 

Through some strange sense of sight or 

touch 
I find what all have found before. 
The presence I have feared so much. 
The unknown's immaterial door. 

I seek not and it comes to me; 
I do not know the thing I find: 
The fillet of fatality 

Drops from my brows that made me 
blind. 

Point forward now or backward, light ! 
The way I take I may not choose: 
Out of the night into the night. 
And in the night no certain clews. 

But on the future, dim and vast, 
And dark with dust and sacrifice, 
Death's towering ruin from the past 
Makes black the land that round me 
lies. 



7IO 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



THE SOUL 

An heritage of hopes and fears 

And dreams and memory, 

And vices of ten thousand years » 

God gives to thee. 

A house of clay, the home of Fate, 
Haunted of Love and Sin, 
Where Death stands knocking at the gate 
To let him in. 



THE CREEK-ROAD 

Calling, the heron flies athwart the blue 
That sleeps above it; reach on rocky reach 
Of water sings by sycamore and beech. 
In virhose warm shade bloom lilies not a few. 
It is a page whereon the sun and dew 
Scrawl sparkling words in dawn's delicious 

speech; 
A laboratory where the wood-winds teach, 
Dissect each scent and analyze each hue. 
Not otherwise than beautiful, doth it 
Record the happenings of each summer 

day ; 
Where we may read, as in a catalogue, 
When passed a thresher; when a load of 

hay; 
Or when a rabbit; or a bird that lit; 
And now a barefoot truant and his dog. 



KU KLUX 

We have sent him seeds of the melon's 

core. 
And nailed a warning upon his door; 
By the Ku Klux laws we can do no more. 

Down in the hollow, mid crib and stack, 
The roof of his low-porched house looms 

black. 
Not a line of light at the doorsill's crack. 

Yet arm and mount ! and mask and ride ! 
The hounds can sense though the fox may 

hide! 
And for a word too much men oft have 

died. 

The clouds blow heavy towards the moon. 
The edge of the storm will reach it soon. 
The killdee cries and the lonesome loon. 



The clouds shall flush with a wilder glare 
Than the lightning makes with its angled 

flare, 
When the Ku Klux verdict is given there. 

In the pause of the thunder rolling low, 
A rifle's answer — who shall know 
From the wind's fierce hurl and the rain's 
black blow ? 

Only the signature written grim 

At the end of the message brought to 

him, — 
A hempen rope and a twisted limb. 

So arm and mount ! and mask and ride ! 
The hounds can sense though the fox may 

hide ! 
And for a word too much men oft have 

died. 

QUATRAINS 

THE WIND IN THE PINES 

When vdnds go organing through the 

pines 
On hill and headland, darkly gleaming, 
Meseems I hear sonorous lines 
Of Iliads that the woods are dreaming. 

OPPORTUNITY 

Behold a hag whom Life denies a kiss 
As he rides questward in knight-errant- 
wise; 
Only when he hath passed her is it his 
To know, too late, the Fairy in disguise. 

COMRADERY 

With eyes hand-arched he looks into 
The morning's face, then turns away 
With schoolboy feet, all wet with dew, 
Out for a holiday. 

The hill brook sings, incessant stars, 
Foam-fashioned, on its restless breast; 
And where he wades its water-bars 
Its song is happiest. 

A comrade of the chinquapin, 
He looks into its knotted eyes 
And sees its heart; and, deep within. 
Its soul that makes him wise. 



MADISON CAWEIN — JOHN BENNETT 



711 



The wood-thrush knows and follows him, 
Who whistles up the birds and bees; 
And round him all the perfumes swim 
Of woodland loam and trees. 

Where'er he pass, the supple springs' 
Foam-people sing the flowers awake; 
And sappy lips of bark-clad things 
Laugh ripe each fruited brake. 

His touch is a companionship; 
His word, an old authority: 
He comes, a lyric at his lip, 
Unstudied Poesy. 



FLIGHT 

The song-birds ? are they flown away ? 

The song-birds of the summer-time, 
That sang their souls into the day. 

And set the laughing days to rhyme ? — 
No catbird scatters through the hush 

The sparkling crystals of its song; 
Within the woods no hermit-thrush 

Trails an enchanted flute along, 
A sweet assertion of the hush. 

All day the crows fly cawing past; 

The acorns drop; the forests scowl: 
At night I hear the bitter blast 

Hoot with the hooting of the owl. 
The wild creeks freeze ; the ways are strewn 

With leaves that rot: beneath the tree 



The bird, that set its toil to tune, 
And made a home for melody. 
Lies dead beneath the death-white moon. 



DIRGE 

What shall her silence keep 

Under the sun ? 

Here, where the willows weep 

And waters run; 

Here, where she lies asleep. 

And all is done. 

Lights, when the tree-top swings; 

Scents that are sown; 

Sounds of the wood-bird's wings; 

And the bee's drone: 

These be her comfortings 

Under the stone. 

What shall watch o'er her here 

When day is fled ? 

Here, when the night is near 

And skies are red ; 

Here, where she lieth dear 

And young and dead. 

Shadows, and winds that spill 
Dew, and the tune 
Of the wild whippoorwill, 
And the white moon, — 
These be the watchers still 
Over her stone. 



3jol[jn 25cnnctt 



SONGS FROM "MASTER SKY- 
LARK" 

THE sky-lark's SONG 

Hey, laddie, hark, to the merry, merry lark; 

How high he singe th clear: 
Oh, a morn in spring is the sweetest thing 

That Cometh in all the year ! 
Oh, a morn in spring is the sweetest thing 

That Cometh in all the year ! 

Ring, ting ! it is the merry spring- 
time; 



How full of heart a body feels ! 
Sing hey, trolly lolly, oh, to live is to 
be jolly, 
When spring-time cometh with 
the summer at her heels ! 

God bless us all, my jolly gentlemen ! 

We '11 merry be to-day; 
For the 'cuckoo sings till the greenwood 
rings, 
And it is the month of May ! 
For the cuckoo sings till the greenwood 
rings. 
And it is the month of May ! 



712 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



Ring, ting ! it is the merry spring- 
time, 
How full of heart a body feels ! 
Sing hey, trolly lolly, oh, to live is to 
be jolly, 
When spring-time cometh with 
the summer at her heels ! 



THE SONG OF THE HUNT 
(OLD WARWICKSHIRE) 

The hunt is up, the hunt is up; 
Sing merrily we, the hunt is up ! 

The wild birds sing. 

The dun deer fling. 

The forest aisles with music ring ! 
Tantara, tantara, taniara ! 

Then ride along, ride along. 
Stout and strong ! 

Farewell to grief and care; 
With a rollicking cheer 
For the high dun deer 

And a life dn the open air ! 
Tantara, the hunt is up, lads ; 

Tantara, the bugles hray ! 
Tantara, tantara, tantara, 
Hio, hark away ! 



GOD BLESS YOU, DEAR, TO- 
' DAY! 

If there be graveyards in the heart 

From which no roses spring, 
A place of wrecks and old gray tombs 

From which no birds take wing, 
Where linger buried hopes and dreams 

Like ghosts among the graves. 
Why, buried hopes are dismal things. 

And lonely ghosts are knaves ! 

If there come dreary winter days. 
When summer roses fall 



And lie, forgot, in withered drifts 

Along the garden wall; 
If all the wreaths a lover weaves 

Turn thorns upon the brow, — 
Then out upon the silly fool 

Who makes not merry now ! 

For if we cannot keep the past, 

Why care for what 's to come ? 
The instant's prick is all that stings, 

And then the place is numb. 
If Life 's a lie and Love 's a cheat. 

As I have heard men say. 
Then here 's a health to fond deceit - 

God bless you, dear, to-day ! 



HER ANSWER 

To-day, dear heart, but just to-day, 

The sunshine over all. 
The roses crimsoning the air 

Along the garden wall ! 
Then let the dream and dreamer die; 

Whate'er shall be, shall be — 
To-day vdll still be thine and mine 

To all eternity. 

And oh, there is no glory, dear, 

When all the world is done. 
There is no splendor lasteth out 

The sinking of the sun; 
There is no thing that lasts, not one, 

When we have turned to clay. 
But this: you loved me — all the rest 

Fades with the world away. 

So little while, so little while 

This world doth last for us, 
There is no way to keep it, dear, 

But just to spend it thus. 
There is no hand may stop the sand 

From flowing fast away 
But his who turns the whole glass down 

And dreams 't is aU to-day. 



€titoarti Huca^ il^ftite 



THE LAST BOWSTRINGS 

They had brought in such sheafs of hair. 
And flung them all about us there 



In the loud noonday's heat and glare: 
Gold tresses, far too fine to wind, 
And brown, with copper curls entwined. 
And black coils, black as all my mind. 



EDWARD LUCAS WHITE 



713 



In the low, stifling armory, 

Whence we could hear, but might not flee, 

The roar of that engirdling sea. 

Whose waves were helmet-crests of foes, 

Winding the cords we sat, in rows, 

Beside a mound of stringless bows. 

Since the first hill-scouts panted in, 
Before siege-fires and battle din 
Filled night and day, and filled within 
Our hearts and brains with flame and sound, 
We had sat, huddled on the ground, 
Our tears hot on the cords we wound. 

We knew, when the first tidings came. 
That not the gods from death or shame 
Could save us, fighting clothed in flame. 
The mid-sea's marshalled waves are few 
Beside the warriors, girt with blue. 
The gorged hill-passes then let through. 

Their spears shook like ripe, standing com. 
Gold lakes that on the plains are born. 
And nod to greet the golden morn; 
After these years the earth yet reels. 
And after snows and showers feels 
The deluge of their chariot wheels. 

Against our walls their flood was dammed. 
Within which, till each porch was jammed, 
Farm-folk and fisher-folk were crammed; 
Heaped stones inside the gates were piled. 
While all above us, calm and mild. 
In bitter scorn the heavens smiled. 

Our men dwelt on the walls and towers. 
From over which, for endless hours, 
The hissing arrows flew in showers; 
The sling-stones, too, came crashing down. 
As though the gods of far renown 
Hurled thunderbolts into the town. 

Where the himg temples showed their 

lights. 
Some women prayed upon the heights; 
Some stole about throughout the nights, — 
Who bore the warriors food by day, — 
Gleaning the arrows as they lay 
That they might hurtle back to slay. 

And where the rooms were heaped with 

stores, 
Because the stringless bows were scores, 
We were shut in with guarded doors; 
All day at hurried toil we kept. 



And when the darkness on us crept 
We lay, each in her place, and slept. 

Quick as we worked, we could not make 
Strings fast as bowmen came to take 
Fresh bows; and oh, the grinding ache 
Of hearts and fingers: maid and slave 
And princess, we toiled on to save 
Home that already was our grave. 

Six days we wound the cords with speed; 

Naught else from us had any heed, 

For bitter was our rage and need. 

At last, upon the seventh day, 

Into the fury of the fray 

They called our very guard away. 

No food was brought us. Faint with thirst. 

What wonder was it if, at first. 

Some wailed that the town gates were 

burst ? 
If, later, to the last embraces 
Of child or mother, from their places 
Some slunk away with ashen faces ? 

I cursed them through the door unbarred ; 

I vowed I would not move a yard. 

Lest some one man of ours, pressed hard, 

Might be left weaponless alone. 

Until I died or turned to stone, 

I would wind, were the hair mine own. 

A sudden shiver shook my frame, 
I looked up with my face aflame; 
But oh, no tongue has any name 
For the despair I saw enthroned 
In my love's eyes, all purple-zoned ! 
I smiled to greet him, and I groaned. 

He buckled on a fresh cuirass, — 
His own was but a tattered mass 
Of gory thongs. I saw him pass 
Out of the portal; with good-byes 
And blessings filled, and yearning sighs. 
For the last time I saw his eyes. 

Each moment, all my blood areel, 

I felt the thrust of deadly steel 

I knew his body soon must feel. 

My heart was choked with prayerful speech ; 

The high, deaf gods were out of reach, 

My eyes dry as a noonday beach. 

More cowards left. Few now remained. 
Still at our task we strove and strained 



714 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



With bleeding hands, and iron-brained; 
And still my fingers all were fleet, 
Though in my temples burned and beat 
The murmur of the stunning heat. 

There rushed in for fresh arms just then 
Some of our allies, — small, dark men; 
It slowly dawned upon my ken 
That one, who by a spear-heap kneeled, 
Fierce-browed and grimy from the field, 
Carried my brother's painted shield. 

My heart beat in long, tearing throbs; 
Sharp torch-lights stormed my eyes in mobs. 
And my breath came in rasping sobs; 
The tears from both my cheeks I wrung; 
So wet my hands were that they clung 
Slipping along the cord I strung. 

Mutely we toiled until my maid. 
Her lips tense as the strands she laid, 
Grew wan; her deft, quick fingers strayed: 
Then she pitched forward with a groan, 
And lay, white, motionless, and prone. 
I wound on hastily, alone. 



Harsh and unevenly outside 

Shields clanged. Men called, and cursed, 

and cried; 
And when again the latch was tried 
My knife lay somewhere on the floor. 
Alas ! I found it not before 
Three armored foemen burst the door. 

GENIUS 

He cried aloud to God: "The men below 
Ave happy, for I see them come and go, 
Parents and mates and friends, paired, 

clothed with love; 
They heed not, see not, need not me above, — 
I am alone here. Grant me love and peace, 
Or, if not them, grant me at least release." 

God answered him : " I set you here on high 
Upon my beacon-tower, you know not why. 
Your soul-torch by the cruel gale is blown. 
As desperate as your aching heart is lone. 
You may not guess but that it shines in 

vain, 
Yet, till it is burned out, you must remain." 



0^artl)a oBilliert aDithin^Bfon 



REALITY 

These are my scales to weigh reality, — 
A dream, a chord, a longing, love of Thee. 
Real as the violets of April days. 
Or those soft-hid in unfrequented ways; 
Real as the noiseless tune to which we tread 
The measure we by life's old song are led; 
Real as man's wonder what his soul may be, — 
A guest for time or for eternity. 
Real as the ocean, seen, alas ! no more. 
Whose tide still beats along my heart's in- 
shore. 
These are my scales to weigh reality, — 
A chord, a dream, a longing, love of Thee ! 

A PRIEST'S PRAYER 

OVEK the dim confessional cried 

Father Amatus, — cloistered young, — 

Dropping his rosary by his side, 
Careless where his crucifix swung: 

"I have been priest since — an endless when ! 
Sat by the living, consoled the dead. 



Fasted and prayed for women and men, 
Fed the poor with my daily bread. 

" The wind blows cold, — how the snow- 
flakes creep ! 

I will sin one sin, ere past recall, 
Lest life should faint in this pallid sleep: 

Kiss me, Jessica ! Once for all." 

FORGIVENESS LANE 

Forgiveness Lane is old as youth, 
You cannot miss your way; 
'T is hedged with flowering thorn forsooth 
Where white doves fearless stray. 

You must walk gently with your Love, 
Frail blossoms dread your feet — 
And bloomy branches close above 
Make heaven near and sweet. 

Some lovers fear the stile of pride 

And turn away in pain — 

But more have kissed where white doves bide 

And blessed Forgiveness Lane ! 



MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON — WALTER MALONE 



715 



SEPARATION 

There be many kinds of parting — yes, I 
know 

Some with fond, grieving eyes that over- 
flow, 

Some with brave hands that strengthen as 
they go; 

Ah yes, I know — I know. 

But there be partings harder still to tell. 
That fall in silence, like an evil spell, 
Without one wistful message of farewell; 
Ah yes, too hard to tell. 

There is no claiming of one sacred kiss, — 
One token for the days when life shall 

miss 
A spirit from the world of vanished bliss; 
Ah no — not even this. 

There is no rising ere the birds have sung 
Their skyward songs, to journey with the 

sun, — 
Nor folded hands to show that life is done; 
Ah no, for life is young. 

There are no seas, no mountains rising 

wide. 
No centuries of absence to divide, — 
Just soul-space, standing daily side by side ; 
Ah, wiser to have died. 

Hands still clasp hands, eyes still reflect 

their own ; — 
Yet had one over universes flown, 
So far each heart hath from the other grown, 
Alone were less alone. 

UNANSWERED 

I WANTED you when skies were red, 
And now the sky is gray; 
I thought of you when shadows fled — 
Now falls the end of day. 



I called you when the hills were flame. 
And now the hills are bare; 
I sought you when the snowflakes came, 
And now the swallows pair ! 



HER MUSIC 
off the keys, — a parting 

the angel slept upon his 



It trembled 

kiss 
So sweet, — 

sword 

As through the gate of Paradise we swept, — 
Partakers of creation's primal bliss ! 

— The air was heavy with the breath 
Of violets and love till death. — 

Forgetful of eternal banishment — 

Deep down the dusk of passion-haunted 

ways, 
Lost in the dreaming alchemies of tone, — 
Drenched in the dew no other wings fre- 
quent, 

— Our thirsting hearts drank in the 

breath 
Of violets and love in death. — 
There was no world, no flesh, no boundary 

line, — 
Spirit to spirit, — chord and dissonance, 
Beyond the jealousy of space or time 
Her life in one low cry broke over 

mine ! 

— The waking angel drew a shuddering 

breath 
Of violets and love and death. 

HEAVEN 

Only to find Forever, blest 
By thine encircling arm; 
Only to lie beyond unrest 
In passion's dreamy calm ! 

Only to meet and never part, 
To sleep and never wake, — 
Heart unto heart and soul to soul. 
Dead for each other's sake. 



Walttt ^almt 



OCTOBER IN TENNESSEE 

Far, far away, beyond a hazy height. 
The turquoise skies are hung in dreamy 
sleep ; 



Below, the fields of cotton, fleecy-white, 
Are spreading like a mighty flock of sheep. 

Now, like Aladdin of the days of old, 
October robes the weeds in purple gowns; 



7i6 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



He sprinkles all the sterile fields with 
gold, 
And all the rustic trees wear royal crowns. 

The straggling fences all are interlaced 
With pink and purple morning-glory 
blooms ; 
The starry asters glorify the waste, 

While grasses stand on guard with pikes 
and plumes. 

Yet still amid the splendor of decay 

The chill winds call for blossoms that 
are dead, 
The cricket chirps for sunshine passed 
away, — 
The lovely summer songsters that have 
fled. 

And lonesome in a haunt of withered vines. 
Amid the flutter of her withered leaves, 

Pale Summer for her perished kingdom 
pines, 
And all the glories of her golden sheaves. 

In vain October wooes her to remain 

Within the palace of his scarlet bowers, — 
Entreats her to forget her heart - break 
pain, 
And weep no more above her faded 
flowers. 

At last November, like a conqueror, comes 
To storm the golden city of his foe; 

We hear his rude winds like the roll of 
drums. 
Bringing their desolation and their woe. 



The sunset, like a vast vermilion flood, 
Splashes its giant glowing waves on high, 

The forest flames with blazes red as 
blood, — 
A conflagration sweeping to the sky. 

Then all the treasures of that brilliant 

state 
• Are gathered in a mighty funeral pyre; 
October, like a King resigned to fate. 
Dies in his forests with their sunset fire. 



HE WHO HATH LOVED 

He who hath loved hath borne a vassal's 

chain, 
And worn the royal purple of a king; 
Hath shrunk beneath the icy Winter's 

sting. 
Then revelled in the golden Summer's reign; 
He hath within the dust and ashes lain, 
Then soared o'er mountains on an eagle's 

wing; 
A hut hath slept in, worn with wandering, 
And hath been lord of castle-towers in 

Spain. 
He who hath loved hath starved in beggar's 

cell. 
Then in Aladdin's jewelled chariot driven; 
He hath with passion roamed a demon 

fell, 
And had an angel's raiment to him given; 
His restless soul hath burned with flames 

of hell, 
And winged through ever-blooming fields 

of heaven. 



SFol&n Jerome titxmt^ 



JOINED THE BLUES 

Says Stonewall Jackson to "Little Phil: " 
" Phil, have you heard the news ? 

Why, our ' Joe ' Wheeler — ' Fighting 
Joe ' — has gone and joined the 
blues. 

" Ay, no mistake — I saw him come — I 
heard the oath he took — 

And you '11 find it duly entered up in yon 
great Record Book. 



" Yes, ' Phil,' it is a change since then (we 
give the Lord due thanks) 

When ' Joe ' came swooping like a hawk 
upon your Sherman's flanks ! 

" Why, * Phil,' you knew the trick yourself 
— but ' Joe ' had all the points — 

And we 've yet to hear his horses died of 
stiff or rusty joints ! 

" But what of that ? — the deed I saw 
to-day in yonder town 



JOHN JEROME ROONEY 



717 



Leads all we did and all ' Joe ' did in troop- 
ings up and down; 

" For, 'Phil,' that oath shall be the heal of 

many a bleeding wound, 
And many a Southland song shall yet to 

that same oath be tuned ! 

" The oath ' Joe ' swore has done the work 
of thrice a score of years — 

Ay, more than oath — he swore away mis- 
trust and hate and tears ! " 

" Yes, yes," says " Phil," " he was, indeed, 

a right good worthy foe, 
And well he knew, in tliose fierce days, to 

give us blow for blow. 

" When ' Joe ' came round to pay a call — 

the commissaries said — 
Full many a swearing, grumbling ' Yank ' 

went supperless to bed: 

" He seemed to have a pesky knack — so 

Sherman used to say — 
Of calling, when he should by rights be 

ninety miles away ! 

" Come, Stonewall, put your hand in mine, 
— ' Joe ' 's sworn old Samuel's 
oath — 

We 're never North or South again — he 
kissed the Book for both ! " 



THE HOMING 

Admiral, Admiral, sailing home — 

Sailing home through the far, dim 
seas. 

Know you the sound that over the foam 
Rises and sinks in the sunset breeze ? 

Know you the thrill and know you the 
start 
That pulses and runs through the 
wind and the spray. 
Pulses and runs from a nation's heart 

To meet you and greet you over the 
way ? 

Not for the mighii^of your guns alone, 

Thundering doom by the Eastern gate ; 

Not for the bugle of victory blown, — 
Not for these do we watch and wait ! 



The glory is sweet — ay, sweet to the 
soul 
Of a people proud in the pride of 
youth. 
But sweeter to know, as the seasons 
roll. 
Our men, as of old, are men in 
truth ! 



THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS 

A CHEER and salute for the Admiral, and 

here 's to the Captain bold, 
And never forget the Commodore's debt 

when the deeds of might are told ! 
They stand to the deck through the battle's 

wreck when the great shells roar 

and screech — 
And never they fear when the foe is near 

to practice what they preach: 
But off with your hat and three times three 

for Columbia's true-blue sons, 
The men below who batter the foe — the 

men behind the guns ! 

Oh, light and merry of heart are they 

when they swing into port once 

more. 
When, with more than enough of the 

" green-backed stuflp," they start for 

their leave-o'-shore ; 
And you 'd think, perhaps, that the blue- 

bloused chaps who loll along the 

street 
Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some 

fierce " mustache " to eat — 
Some warrior . bold, with straps of gold, 

who dazzles and fairly stuns 
The modest worth of the sailor boys — the 

lads who serve the guns. 

But say not a word till the shot is heard 

that tells the fight is on. 
Till the long, deep roar grows more and 

more from the ships of " Yank " 

and " Don," 
Till over the deep the tempests sweep of 

fire and bursting shell. 
And the very air is a mad Despair in the 

throes of a living hell ; 
Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, 

unseen by the midday suns. 
You '11 find the chaps who are giving the 

raps — the men behind the guns I 



7i8 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



Oh, well they know how the cyclones blow 
that they loose from their cloud of 
death, 

And they know is heard the thunder-word 
their fierce ten-incher saith ! 

The steel decks rock with the lightning 
shock, and shake with the great re- 
coil, 

And the sea grows red with the blood of 
the dead and reaches for his spoil — 

But not till the foe has gone below or turns 
his prow and runs, 

Shall the voice of peace bring sweet release 
to the men behind the guns ! 

WHERE HELEN COMES 

Where Helen comes, as falls the dew, 
Where Helen comes Peace cometh too ! 
From out the golden, western lands, 
White lilies blooming in her hands, 
A light of beauty in her face. 
She passeth on with nameless grace. 
Before her fly the shades of life ' — 
The darkling, wheeling bats of strife — 
They flee her very garments' stir, 
And greater fear the soul of her; 
For hath she not the magic touch — 
The sesame of loving much ? 
Where'er her morning footsteps pass 
The daisies sing unto the grass; 
Soft whispers full of praises sweet 



Her evening presence rise to greet, 
And if she go through deserts bare 
The angels of the heart are there: 
They find no spot to weave their spells 
So fair as that where Helen dwells ! 
Where Helen comes, as falls the dew, 
Where Helen comes Peace cometh too ! 



THE RAHAT 

Upon Nirwdna's brink the rdhat stood ; 

Beneath him rolled the Ocean of the All: 
Responsive flowed the current of his blood 

To meet the tidal call — 

Save one red drop within his mortal veins 
Wherein the image of Zuleika shone; 

He gazed a moment on Nirwdna's gains — - 
And Earthward he was gone ! 



A BEAM OF LIGHT 

A BEAM of light, from the infinite depths 
of the midnight sky, 

Painted with infinite love a star in a con- 
vict's eye; 

When, Iq ! the ghosts of his sins were 
afraid and fled with a curse, 

And the soul of the man walked free in the 
fields of the universe ! 



^nne Mttht ^Itiricl) 



A SONG ABOUT SINGING 

O NIGHTINGALE, the poet's bird, 
A kinsman dear thou art. 

Who never sings so well as when 
The rose-thorns bruise his heart. 

But since thy agony can make 
A listening world so blest, 

Be sure it cares but little for 
Thy wounded, bleeding breast I 



IN NOVEMBER 

Brown earth-line meets gray heaven, 

And all the land looks sad; 
But Love 's the little leaven 



That works the whole world glad. 
Sigh, bitter wind; lower, frore clouds of 

gray: 
My Love and I are living now in May ! 



MUSIC OF HUNGARY 

My body answers you, my blood 
Leaps at your maddening, piercing call. 
The fierce notes startle, and the veil 
Of this dull present seems to fall. 

My soul responds to that long cry; 

It wants its country, Hungary ! 

Not mine by birth. Yet have I not 
Some strain of that old Magyar race ? 
Else why the secret stir of sense 



ANNE REEVE ALDRICH 



719 



At sight of swarthy Tzigane face, 

That warns me: " Lo, thy kinsmen nigh." 
All 's dear that tastes of Hungary, 

Once more, let me hear once more 

The passion and barbaric rage ! 

Let me forget my exile here > 

In this mild land, in this mild age; 
Once more that unrestrained wild cry 
That takes me to my Hungary ! 

They listen with approving smile, 
But I, O God, I want my home ! 
I want the Tzigane tongue, the dance, 
The nights in tents, the days to roam. 
O music, O fierce life and free, 
God made my soul for Hungary ! 



A CROWNED POET 

In thy coach of state 
Pass, O King, along: 

He no envy feels 

To whom God giveth song. 

Starving, still I smile, 

Laugh at want and wrong: 

He is fed and crowned 

To whom God giveth song. 

Better than all pomps 
That to rank belong, — 

One such dream as his 

To whom God giveth song. 

Let us greet, O King, 

As we pass along: 
He, too, is a king 

To whom God giveth song. 



LOVE'S CHANGE 

I WENT to dig a grave for Love, 
But the earth was so stiff and cold 

That, though I strove through the bitter 
night, 
I could not break the mould. 

And I said: " Must he lie in my house in 

state, 
And stay in his wonted place ? 
Must I have him with me another day. 
With that awful change in his face ? " 



FRATERNITY 

I ASK not how thy suffering came, 
Or if by sin, or if by shame, 
Or if by Fate's capricious rulings: 
To my large pity all 's the same. 

Come close and lean against a heart 
Eaten by pain and stung by smart; 
It is enough if thou hast suffered, — 
Brother or sister then thou art. 

We will not speak of what we know, 
Rehearse the pang, nor count the throe, 
Nor ask what agony admitted 
Thee to the Brotherhood of Woe. 

But in our anguish-darkened land 
Let us draw close, and clasp the hand; 
Our whispered password holds assuage- 
ment, — 
The solemn " Yea, I understand ! " 



RECOLLECTION 

How can it be that I forget 
The way he phrased my doom, 

When I recall the arabesques 
That carpeted the room ? 

How can it be that I forget 
His look and mien that hour, 

When I recall I wore a rose. 
And still can smell the flower ? 

How can it be that I forget 

Those words that were the last. 

When I recall the tune a man 
Was whistling as he passed 2 

These things are what we keep from life's 

Supremest joy or pain ; 
For Memory locks her chaff in bins 

And throws away the grain. 



APRIL — AND DYING 

Green blood fresh pulsing through the 
trees. 
Black buds, that sun and shower dis- 
tend; 
All other things begin anew, 
But I must end. 



"720 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



Warm sunlight on faint-colored sward, 
Warm fragrance in the breezes' breath; 

For other things are heat and life, 
For me is death. 



A LITTLE PARABLE 

I MADE the cross myself whose weight • 

Was later laid on me. 
This thought is torture as I toil 

Up life's steep Calvary. 

To think mine own hands drove the nails ! 

I sang a merry song, 
And chose the heaviest wood I had 

To tiiild it firm and strong. 

If I had guessed — if I had dreamed 

Its weight was meant for me, 
I should have made a lighter cross 

To bear up Calvary ! 



DEATH AT DAYBREAK 

I SHALL go out when the light comes 
in — 

There lie my cast-oif form and face; 
I shall pass Dawn on her way to earth, 

As I seek for a path through space. 

I shall go out when the light comes in; 

Would I might take one ray with me ! 
It is blackest night between the worlds, 

And how is a soul to see ? 



THE ETERNAL JUSTICE 

Thank God that God shall judge my soul, 
not man ! 

I marvel when they say, 

" Think of that awful Day 
No pitying fellow-sinner's eyes shall scan 

With tolerance thy soul, 

But His who knows the whole, 
The God whom all men own is wholly-just." 

Hold thou that last word dear. 

And live untouched by fear. 
He knows with what strange fires He mixed 
this dust. 

The heritage of race, 

The circumstance and place 
Which make us what we are — were from 
His hand. 

That left us, faint of voice. 

Small margin for a choice. 
He gave, I took: shall I not fearless 
stand ? 

Hereditary bent 

That hedges in intent 
He knows, be sure, the God who shaped 
thy brain. 

He loves the souls He made; 

He knows His own hand laid 
On each the mark of some ancestral stain. 

Not souls severely white. 

But groping for more light. 
Are what Eternal Justice here demands. 

Fear not: He made thee dust; 

Cling to that sweet'word — " Just; " 
All's well with thee if thou art in just 
hands. 



^ttbttt ^att^ 



PRAIRIE 

Across the sombre prairie sea 
The dark swells billow heavily. 
Are the looming ridges near or far 
That heave to the smooth horizon-bar ? 

The russet reach of grassy roll 
Sickens the heart and iiumbs the soul; 
The thin wind gives no air for breath; 
The stillness is the pause of death. 

This width was never shaped to be 
The home of man's mortality. 



A breathless vacuum of peace, 
Where life's spent ripples spread 



No end, no source, its spaces know; 
Wide as the sea's perpetual flow 
Is its dead stand — dull wall on wall 
Of sullen waves unspiritual. 

God give me but in dream to come 
Back to the pine-clad hills of home, 
Back to the old eternity 
Of placid, all-consoling sea. 



and 



I 



HERBERT BATES — JOHN RUSSELL HAYES 



721 



THE HEAVENS ARE OUR RIDDLE 

The heavens are our riddle ; and the sea, 
Forested earth, the grassy rustling plain. 
Snows, rains, and thunders. Yea, and even 

we 
Before ourselves stand ominous. Li vain ! 
The stars still march their way, the sea 

still rolls, 
The forests wave, the plain drinks in the sun. 
And we stand silent, naked, — with tremu- 
lous souls, — 



Before our unsolved selves. We pray to 

one 
Whose hand should help us. But we hear 

no voice; 
Skies clear and darken; the days pale and 

pass, 
Nor any bids us weep or bids rejoice. 
Only the wind sobs in the shrivelling 

grass, — 
Only the wind, — and we with upward 

eyes 
Expectant of the silence of the skies. 



5o{)n ^Hu^^ell i^ape^ 



FROM " THE OLD-FASHIONED 

GARDEN " 

Fair is each budding thing the garden 
shows. 
From spring's frail crocus to the latest 
bloom 

Of fading autumn. Every wind that 
blows 
Across that glowing tract sips rare per- 
fume 

From all the tangled blossoms tossing 
there ; — 

Soft winds, they fain would linger long, 
nor any farther fare. 

The morning-glories ripple o'er the hedge 
And fleck its greenness with their tinted 
foam ; 
Sweet wilding things up to the garden's 



They love to wander from their meadow 

home, 
To take what little pleasure here they 

may 
Ere all their silken trumpets close before 

the warm midday. 

The larkspur lifts on high its azure spires. 

And up the arbor's lattices are rolled 
The quaint nasturtium's many-colored 
fires; 
The tall carnation's breast of faded gold 
Is striped with many a faintly-flushing 

streak, 
Pale as the tender tints that blush upon a 
baby's cheek. 



The old sweet-rocket sheds its fine per- 
fumes ; 
W^ith golden stars the coreopsis flames; 

And here are scores of sweet old-fashioned 
blooms 
Dear for the very fragrance of their, 
names, — 

Poppies and gillyflowers and four-o' clocks, 

Cowslips and candytuft and heliotrope and 
hollyhocks, 

Harebells and peonies and dragon-head. 
Petunias, scarlet sage, and bergamot. 
Verbenas, ragged-robins, soft gold-thread. 
The bright primrose and pale forget-me- 
not. 
Wall-flowers and crocuses and columbines, 
Narcissus, asters, hyacinths, and honey- 
suckle vines. 

Foxgloves and marigolds and mignonette, 
Dahlias and lavender and damask rose. 
O dear old flowers, ye are blooming yet, — 
Each year afresh your lovely radiance 
glows : 
But where are they who saw your beauty's 

dawn ? 
Ah, with the flowers of other years they 
long ago have gone ! 

They long have gone, but ye are still as 
fair 
As when the brides of eighty years ago 
Plucked your soft roses for their waving 
hair. 
And blossoms o'er their bridal-veils to 
strow. 



722 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



Alas, your myrtle on a later day 
Marked those low mounds where 'neath 
the willows' shade at last they lay ! 

Beside the walk the drowsy poppies sway, 
More deep of hue than is the reddest 
rose, 

And dreamy-warm as summer's midmost 
day: 
Proud, languorous queens of slumberous 
repose — 

Within their little chalices they keep 

The mystic witchery that brings mild, pur- 
ple-lidded sleep. 

Drowse on, soft flowers of quiet after- 
noons, — 
The breezes sleep beneath your lulling 
spell; 



In dreamy silence all the garden swoons, 

Save where the lily's aromatic bell 
Is murmurous with one low-humming 

bee, ^ 

As oozy honey-drops are pilfered by that 
fllcher wee. 



And now is gone the dreamy after- 
noon, — 
The sun has sunk below yon western 
height; 

The pallid silver of the harvest-moon 
Floods all the garden with its soft, weird 
light. 

The flowers long since have told their 
dewy beads. 

And naught is heard except the frogs' 
small choir in distant meads. 



2Dora JHeati oBootiale 



THE FLIGHT OF THE HEART 

The heart soars up like a bird 

From a nest of care; 
Up, up to a larger sky, 

To a softer air. 
No eye can measure its flight 

And no hand can tame; 
It mounts in beauty and light, 

In music and flame. 
Of all the changes of Time 

There is none like this; 
The heart soars up like a bird 

At the stroke of bliss. 

The heart soars up like a bird. 

But its wings soon tire; 
Enough of rapture and song. 

The cloud and the fire ! 
Its look, the look of a king — 

Of a slave, its birth. 
The poor, tired, impotent thing 

Sinks back to the earth. 
And the mother spreads her lap. 

And she lulls its pain: 
** Oh, thou who sighed for the sun, 

Art thou mine again ? " 

THE SOUL OF MAN 

Say, in a hut of mean estate 

A light just glimmers and then is gone, 



Nature is seen to hesitate, — 

Put forth and then retract her pawn; 

Say, in the alembic of an eye 

Haughty is mixed with poor and low; 
Say, Truth herself is not so high 

But Error laughs to see her so; 

Say, all that strength failed in its trust; 

Say, all that wit crept but a span; 
Say, 't is a drop spilled in the dust, — 

And then say brother — then say man ! 



THE JUDGMENT 

Thou hast done evil 

And given place to the devil; 

Yet so cunningly thou concealest 

The thing which thou feelest, 

That no eye espieth it, 

Satan himself denieth it. 

Go where it chooseth thee. 

There is none that accuse th thee; 

Neither foe nor lover 

Will the wrong uncover; 

The world's breath raiseth thee, 

And thy own past praiseth thee. 

Yet know thou this: 
At quick of thy being 
Is an eye all-seeing. 



DORA GOODALE — J. R. TAYLOR— ARTHUR COLTON 723 



The snake's wit evade th uot, 
The charmed lip persuade th not; 
So thoroughly it despiseth 
The thing thy hand prizeth, 
Though the sun were thy clothing, 



It should count thee for nothing. 
Thine own eye divineth thee, 
Thine own soul arraigneth thee; 
God himself cannot shrive thee 
Till that judge forgive thee. 



gfo^epfj iHu^i^ell €aplor 



THE FLUTE 

Puffed up with luring to her knees 
The rabbits from the blackberries, 
Quaint little satyrs, and shy and mute, 
That limped reluctant to thejlute. 
She needs must seek the forest's womb 
And pipe up tigers from green gloom. 

Grouped round the dreaming oaten quill 
Those sumptuous savages were still. 
Rich spectral beasts that feared to stir, 
And haughty and wistful gazed on her, 
And swayed their sleepy masks in time 
And growled a drowsy uuder-rhyme. 

Tune done, that agile fancy stopped. 
The lingering notes in mid-air dropped; 
The flute stole from her parted kiss, 
Her cheeks for sorcery burned with bliss. 
Then grew a deadly muttering there; 
And sudden yellow eyes aglare 
Blazed furious over wrinkled lips 
And teeth on her. Her finger-tips 
Trembled a little as they woke 
The second tune beneath the oak, 
A lilt that charmed and lulled to mute 
The uneasy soul within the brute. 

And all that warbling ecstasy 

Was winged with terror, and daintily 

Ceased on the wild and tragic face 

And desperate huddle of her grace: 

For with the hush began to gride 

Their sullen, soulless, evil-eyed, 

Intolerable rage, blown hot 

Upon her. The third tune was caught 



With trouble from unuttered air: 
And still as autumn they sat there. 

The breathless seventh tune died out 

Like withered laughter: all about 

The frantic silence ran a race. 

She stirred, she moaned, she crawled a 

space. 
There leaped a vast and thunderous roar; 
A huge heart-shaking tumult tore 
About the oak. Filing away. 
They trod the stained flute where it lay. 

THE VEERY-THRUSH 

Blow softly, thrush, upon the hush 

That makes the least leaf loud, 

Blow, wild of heart, remote, apart 

From all the vocal crowd, 

Apart, remote, a spirit note 

That dances meltingly afloat, 

Blow faintly, thrush ! 

And build the green-hid waterfall 

I hated for its beauty, and all 

The unloved vernal rapture and flush, 

The old forgotten lonely time. 

Delicate thrush ! 

Spring 's at the prime, the world 's in 

chime. 
And my love is listening nearly; 
O lightly blow the ancient woe, 
Flute of the wood, blow clearly ! 
Blow, she is here, and the world all dear, 
Melting flute of the hush, 
Old sorrow estranged, enriched, sea- 

changed, 
Breathe it, veery-thrush ! 



^rtljur €olton 



A SONG WITH A DISCORD 

Though Winter come with dripping 
skies, 
And laden winds and strong. 



Yet I '11 read summer in her eyes 
Whose voice is summer's song. 

Who grieves because the world is old. 
Or cares how long it last, 



724 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



If no gray threads are in our gold, 
The shade our marbles cast, 

How, creeping near, we may not see ? 

Time's heirs are Love and I, 
And spend our minted days — Ah, me ! 

For anything they '11 buy. 

TO FAUSTINE 

Sometime, it may be, you and I 
lu some deserted yard will lie 



Where Memory fades away; 
Caring no more for Love his dreams. 
Busy with new and alien themes, 
The saints and sages say. 

But let our graves be side by side, 
So idlers may at evening tide 
Pause there a moment's space: 
" Ah, they were lovers who lie here ; 
Else why these low graves laid so 

near. 
In this forgotten place ? " 



^Jjilijj I^enrp J^abage 



MORNING 

Not least, 't is ever my delight 
To drink the early morning light; 
To take the air upon my tongue 
And taste it while the day is young. 
So let my solace be the breath 
Of morning, when I move to death. 



SILKWEED 

Lighter than dandelion down. 

Or feathers from the white moth's wing, 
Out of the gates of bramble-town 

The silkweed goes a-gypsying. 

Too fair to fly in autumn's rout. 
All winter in the sheath it lay; 

But now, when spring is pushing out, 
The zephyr calls, " Away ! away ! " 

Through mullein, bramble, brake, and 
fern, 

Up from their cradle-spring they fly. 
Beyond the boundary wall to turn 

And voyage through the friendly sky. 

Softly, as if instinct with thought. 
They float and drift, delay and turn; 

And one avoids and one is caught 
Between an oak-leaf and a fern. 

And one holds by an airy line 

The spider drew from tree to tree; 

And if the web is light and fine, 
'Tis not so liglit and fine as he ! 



And one goes questing up the wall 
As if to find a door; and then. 

As if he did not care at all. 

Goes over, and adown the glen. 

And all in airiest fashion fare 
Adventuring, as if, indeed, 

'T were not so grave a thing to bear 
The burden of a seed ! 



SOLITUDE 

As one advances up the slow ascent 
Along the pathway in the woods, the trees 
Change aspect, nor alone in this, but 

change 
In stature and in power till Solitude 
Seems cut out of the ancient forest. Here 
Was Solitude ! where man had lived of 

old, 
Loved, serving God, and built himself a 

home. 
Man smooths an acre on the rolling earth, 
Turns up the mould and reaps the gifts of 

God; 
Plucks down the apple from the tree, the 

tree 
From empire in the forest, builds a home ; 
Turns for a bout among his brothers, wins 
A sister to his wife and gets an heir; 
And then as here in Solitude departs 
And leaves small mark behind. The place 

is rare 
In this high epic of the human life. 
Where wildness has been wilderness shall 

be, 



PHILIP HENRY SAVAGE — BARRETT EASTMAN 



725 



But give God time; and life is but a span, 
Nine inches, while before it and behind 
Stretches the garden of the cosmic gods; 
For after Loudon, England shall be wild, 
And none can thaw the iceberg at the pole. 
In Solitude one sees the winding trace 
Of what has been a road, a block of stone 
Footworn, that lies along the dim pathway 
Before one old foundation; and the rest 
Is freaks of grass among the rising growth 
Of birch and maple that another year 
Shall see almost a forest. 

INFINITY 

I DAKE not think that thou art by, to 

stand 
And face omnipotence so near at hand ! 



When I consider thee, how must I 
shrink ; 
How must I say, I do not understand, 
I dare not think ! 

I cannot stand before the thought of thee, 
Infinite Fulness of Eternity ! 

So close that all the outlines of the 
land 
Are lost, — in the inflowing of thy sea 
I cannot stand. 

I think of thee, and as the crystal bowl 
Is broken, and the waters of the soul 

Go down to death within the crystal sea, 
I faint and fail when (thou, the perfect 
whole) 
I think of thee. 



^attttt €a^tman 



RICHARD SOMERS 

His body lies upon the shore , 
Afar from his beloved land. 

And over him shine tropic suns ; 
No more he thrills at sound of guns. 
No longer, cutlass in his hand, 
Cries, " Follow me ! " and goes before. 

Above him droop the languid trees, 
Athirst and fainting with the noon; 
Around him drowsy lizards crawl. 
No more he hears the boatswain's 
call. 
Nor sees the waters rock the moon, 
Nor smells the keen and salty breeze. 

Vain roars old Ocean in his ear. 
Calling to him from mighty deeps. 
Yearning for him who loved the main. 
Never shall he make sail again; 
Under the restless sands he sleeps. 
He is at rest, he cannot hear. 

But when the Trumpet sounds alarms 
On that great day when all shall rise. 
And earth and sea give up their 

dead, 
Then out from his unquiet bed 
Where now heroic Somers lies 
His soul will leap to Ocean's arms ! 



JOY ENOUGH 

Into the caverns of the sea 

Shall all at last descend. 
Who now press forward gallantly 

Unrecking of the end. 

And no man knoweth what is there, 
Nor when his time shall come 

To yield his soul and take his share 
With all those gone and dumb. 

It may be we shall find our kin 

Waiting to grasp our hands. 
And lead us glorified within. 

Over the shining sands ; 

It may be we with them shall lie. 
While heaven and earth abide. 

Swaying silent with sightless eye 
There in the sluggish tide. 

It matters nothing if to-day. 

Beneath the splendid sun, 
We hold to the appointed way. 

Doing what must be done. 

Reward ? What would you ? Have not we 
The waves beneath us bent ? 

The winds about us blowing free ? 
Above — the firmament ? 



726 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



nailltam l^au0l^n Sl^ootip 



FROM "AN ODE IN TIME OF 
HESITATION" 

1900 

ROBERT GOULD SHAW 

The wars we wage 

Are noble, and our battles still are won 

By justice for us, ere we lift the gage. 

We have not sold our loftiest heritage. 

The proud republic hath not stooped to 
cheat 

And scramble in the market place of war; 

Her forehead weareth yet its solemn star. 

Here is her witness: this, her perfect son, 

This delicate and proud New England soul 

Who leads despised men, with just-un- 
shackled feet, 

Up the large ways where death and glory 
meet, 

To show all peoples that our shame is done. 

That once more we are clean and spirit- 
whole. 

Crouched in the sea fog on the moaning 

sand 
All night he lay, speaking some simple word 
From hour to hour to the slow minds that 

heard. 
Holding each poor life gently in his hand 
And breathing on the base rejected clay 
Till each dark face shone mystical and grand 
Against the breaking day; 
And lo, the shard the potter cast away 
Was grown a fiery chalice crystal-fine, 
Fulfilled of the divine 

Great wine of battle wrath by God's ring- 
finger stirred. 
Then upward, where the shadowy bastion 

loomed 
Huge on the mountain in the wet sea light. 
Whence now, and now, infernal flowerage 

bloomed. 
Bloomed, burst, and scattered down its 

deadly seed, — 
They swept, and died like freemen on the 

height, 
Like freemen, and like men of noble breed; 
And when the battle fell away at night 
By hasty and contemptuous hands were 

thrust 
Obscurely in a common grave with him 



The fair-haired keeper of their love and 

trust. 
Now limb doth mingle with dissolved limb 
In nature's busy old democracy 
To flush the mountain laurel when she blows 
Sweet by the southern sea. 
And heart with crumbled heart climbs in 

the rose : — 
The untaught hearts with the high heart 

that knew 
This mountain fortress for no earthly hold 
Of temporal quarrel, but the bastion old 
Of spiritual wrong. 

Built by an unjust nation sheer and strong, 
Expugnable but by a nation's rue 
And bowing down before that equal shrine 
By all men held divine. 
Whereof his band and he were the most 

holy sign. 

"no hint of stain" 

We are our fathers' sons : let those who 

lead us know ! 
'Twas only yesterday sick Cuba's cry 
Came up the tropic wind, " Now help us, 

for we die ! " 
Then Alabama heard. 
And rising, pale, to Maine and Idaho 
Shouted a burning word; 
Proud state with proud impassioned state 

conferred, 
And at the lifting of a hand sprang forth, 
East, west, and south, and north. 
Beautiful armies. Oh, by the sweet blood 

and young 
Shed on the awful hill slope at San Juan, 
By the unforgotten names of eager boys 
Who might have tasted girls' love and been 

stung 
With the old mystic joys 
And starry griefs, now the spring nights 

come on. 
But that the heart of youth is generous, — 
We charge you, ye who lead us. 
Breathe on their chivalry no hint of stain ! 
Turn not their new- world victories to gain ! 
One least leaf plucked for chaffer from the 

bays 
Of their dear praise. 

One jot of their pure conquest put to hire> 
The implacable republic will require; 



MOODY — KNOWLES — ROBINSON 



727 



With clamor, in the glare and gaze of 

noon, 
Or subtly, coming as a thief at night. 
But surely, very surely, slow or soon 
That insult deep we deeply will requite. 
Tempt not our weakness, our cupidity ! 
For save we let the island men go free. 
Those baffled and dislaureled ghosts 
Will curse us from the lamentable coasts 
Where walk the frustrate dead. 
The cup of trembling shall be drained quite, 
Eaten the sour bread of astonishment, 



With ashes of the hearth shall be made 

white 
Our hair, and wailing shall be in the tent: 
Then on your guiltier head 
Sliall our intolerable self-disdain 
Wreak suddenly its anger and its pain; 
For manifest in that disastrous light 
We shall discern the right 
And do it, tardily. — O ye who lead, 
Take heed ! 
Blindness we may forgive, but baseness we 

will smite. 



JreUmt StatDtence taohjle^ef 



NATURE : THE ARTIST 

Such hints as untaught Nature yields ! — 

The calm disorder of the sea. 
The straggling splendor of the fields. 

The wind's gay incivility. 

O workman with your conscious plan. 
Compass and square are little worth; 

Copy (nay, only poets can) 
The artless masonry of earth. 

Go watch the windy spring's carouse. 
And mark the winter wonders grow, — 

The graceful gracelessness of boughs. 
The careless carpentry of snow ! 

A PASTURE 
Rough pasture where the blackberries 



grow 



It bears upon its churlish face 
No sign of beauty, art, or grace; 
Not here the silvery coverts glow 
That April and the angler know. 

There sleeps no brooklet in this wild. 
Smooth-resting on its mosses sleek. 



Like loving lips upon a cheek 
Soft as the face of maid or child, — 
Just boulders, helter-skelter piled. 

Ungenerous nature but endows 

These acres with the stumps and stocks 
Which should be trees, with rude, gray- 
rocks ; 
Over these humps and hollows browse, 
Daily, the awkward, shambling cows. 

Here on the right a straggling wall 
Of crazy, granite stones, and there 
A rotten pine-trunk, brown and bare, 

A mass of huge brakes, rank and tall, — 

The burning blue sky over all. 

And yet these blackberries shy and chaste ! 
The noisy markets know no such, — 
So ripe they tumble when you touch; 
Long, taper — rarer wines they waste 
Than ever town-bred topers taste. 

And tell me ! have you looked o'erhead, 
From lawns where lazy hammocks swing, 
And seen such orioles on the wing ? 

Such flames of song that flashed and fled ? 

Well, maybe — I 'm not city-bred. 



dttxMn Arlington jJlotiin^on 



LUKE HAVERGAL 

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal, — 
There where the vines cling crimson on the 
wall, — 



And in the twilight wait for what will come. 
The wind will moan, the leaves will whisper 

some, — 
Whisper of her, and strike you as they fall; 
1 But go, and if you trust her she will call. 



728 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal — 
Luke Havergal. 

No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies 
To rift the fiery night that 's in your eyes ; 
But there, where western glooms aregather- 

The dark will end the dark, if anything: 
God slays Himself with every leaf that 

flies, 
And hell is more than half of paradise. 
No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies — 
In eastern skies. 

Out of a grave I come to tell you this, — 
Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss 
That flames upon your forehead with a 

glow 
That blinds you to the way that you must 

go. _ 
Yes, there is yet one way to where she is, — 
Bitter, but one that faith can never miss. 
Out of a grave I come to tell you this — 
To tell you this. 

There is the western gate, Luke Havergal, 
There are the crimson leaves upon the wall. 
Go, — for the winds are tearing them 

away, — 
Nor think to riddle the dead words 



they 



say, 



Nor any more to feel them as they fall; 
But go ! and if you trust her she will call. 
There is the western gate, Luke Havergal — 
Luke Havergal. 

BALLADE OF DEAD FRIENDS 

As we the withered ferns 

By the roadway lying. 
Time, the jester, spurns 

All our prayers and prying — 

All our tears and sighing, 
Sorrow, change, and woe — 

All our where-and-whying 
For friends that come and go. 

Life awakes and burns. 

Age and death defying, 
Till at last it learns 

All but Love is dying; 

Love 's the trade we 're plying, 
God has willed it so; 

Shrouds are what we 're buying 

For friends that come and go. 



Man forever yearns 

For the thing that 's flying. 
Everywhere he turns. 

Men to dust are drying, — 

Dust that wanders, eying 
(With eyes that hardly glow) 

New faces, dimly spying 
For friends that come and go. 



And thus we all are nighing 

The truth we fear to know: 

Death will end our crying 

For friends that come and go, 

THE CLERKS 

I DID not think that I should find them 
there 

When I came back again; but there they 
stood, 

As in the days they dreamed of when young 
blood 

Was in their cheeks and women called 
them fair. 

Be sure, they met me with an ancient air, — 

And, yes, there was a shop-worn brother- 
hood 

About them; but the men were just as 
good. 

And just as human as they ever were. 

And you that ache so much to be sub- 
lime, 

And you that feed yourselves with your 
descent, 

What comes of all your visions and your 
fears ? 

Poets and kings are but the clerks of Time, 

Tiering the same dull webs of discontent. 

Clipping the same sad alnage of the years. 

THE PITY OF THE LEAVES 

Vengeful across the cold November moors. 

Loud with ancestral shame there came the 
bleak. 

Sad wind that shrieked, and answered with 
a shriek, 

Reverberant through lonely corridors. 

The old man heard it; and he heard, per- 
force, 

Words out of lips that were no more to 
speak — 

Words of the past that shook the old man's 
cheek 



EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON — CAROLINE DUER 729 



Like dead, remembered footsteps on old 

floors. 
And then there were the leaves that plagued 

him so ! 
The brown, thin leaves that on the stones 

outside 
Skipped with a freezing whisper. Now 

and then 
They stopped, and stayed there — just to 

let him know 
How dead they were; bixt if the old man 

cried. 
They fluttered off like withered souls of 



THE HOUSE ON THE HILL 

They are all gone away, 

The House is shut and still, 
There is nothing more to say. 



Through broken walls and gray 

The winds blow bleak and shrill: 
They are all gone away. 

Nor is there one to-day 

To speak them good or ill: 
There is nothing more to say. 

Why is it then we stray 

Around that sunken sill ? 
They are all gone away, 

And our poor fancy-play 

For them is wasted skill: 
There is nothing more to say. 

There is ruin and decay 

In the House on the Hill: 
They are all gone away, 
There is nothing more to say. 



Caroline ^uer 



AN INTERNATIONAL EPISODE 
(march 15, 1889) 

We were ordered to Samoa from the coast 
of Panama, 
And for two long months we sailed the 
unequal sea. 
Till we made the horseshoe harbor with its 
curving coral bar, 
Smelt the good green smell of grass and 
shrub and tree. 
We had barely room for swinging with the 
tide — 
There were many of us crowded in the 
bay: 
Three Germans, and the English ship, be- 
side 
Our three — and from the Trenton where 
she lay. 
Through the sunset calms and after. 
We could hear the shrill, sweet laughter 
Of the children's voices on the shore at 
play. 

We all knew a storm was coming, but, 
dear God ! no man could dream 
Of the furious hell-horrors of that day: 



Through the roar of winds and waters we 
could hear wild voices scream — 
See the rocking masts reel by us through 
the spray. 
In the gale we drove and drifted help- 
lessly. 
With our rudder gone, our engine-fires 
drowned, 
And none might hope another hour to 
see; 
For all the air was desperate with the 
sound 
Of the brave ships rent asunder — 
Of the shrieking souls sucked under, 

'Neath the waves, where many a good 
man's grave was found. 

About noon, upon our quarter, from the 
deeper gloom afar. 
Game the English man-of-war Calliope. 
" We have lost our anchors, comrades, and, 
though small the chances are. 
We must steer for safety and the open 
sea." 
Then we climbed aloft to cheer her as she 
passed 
Through the tempest and the blackness 
and the foam: 



739 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



" Now, God speed you, though the shout 
should be our last. 
Through the channel where the maddened 
breakers comb, 
Through the wild sea's hill and hollow, 
On the path we cannot follow. 

To your women and your children and 
your home." 

Oh ! remember it, good brothers. We two 
people speak one tongue. 
And your native land was mother to our 
land; 
But the head, perhaps, is hasty when the 
nation's heart is young. 
And we prate of things we do not under- 
stand. 
But the day when we stood face to face with 

death, 
(Upon whose face few men may look and 

tell). 
As long as you could hear, or we had 
breath, 
Four hundred voices cheered you out of 
hell! 
By the will of that stern chorus, 
By the motherland which bore us, 

Judge if we do not love each other well. 



A PORTRAIT 

A MAN more kindly, in his careless way. 

Than many who profess a higher creed; 
Whose fickle love might change from day 
to day. 
And yet be faithful to a friend in 
need; 
Whose manners covered, through life's outs 

and ins, 
Like charity, a multitude of sins. 

A man of honor, too, as such things go ; 

Discreet and secret — qualities of use — 
Selfish, but not self-conscious, generous, 
slow 

To anger, but most ready in excuse. 



His wit and cleverness consisted not 
So much in what he said as what he got. 

His principles one might not quite com- 
mend. 
And they were much too simple to mis- 
take: 

Never to turn his back upon a friend, 
Never to lie, but for a woman's sake, 

To take the sweets that came within his 
way. 

And pay the price if there were price to 
pay. 

Idle, good-looking, negatively wise. 

Lazy in action, plausible in speech; 
Favor he found in many women's eyes, 
And valued most that which was hard to 
reach. 
Few are both true and tender, and he 

grew. 
In time, a little tenderer than true. 

Knowing much evil, half -regretting good. 
As we regret a childish impulse — lost, 
Wearied with knowledge best not under- 
stood. 
Bored with the disenchantment that it 
cost; 
But, in conclusion, with no failings hid: 
A gentleman, no matter what he did. 

A WORD TO THE WISE 

If wisdom's height is only disenchantment. 
As say the cynics of a certain school, 

And sages grow more sad in their advance- 
ment. 
Then folly is the wisdom of the fool. 

Since fools know happiness through lack 
of knowledge, 
And see things fair because they shut 
their eyes. 
Then any one can tell, who 's been to col- 
lege. 
That wisdom is the folly of the wise. 



^Uce Wmt ^illtt 



SONG 



The light of spring 
On the emerald earth, 



A man, a maid, 

And a mood of mirth, 
A foolish jest, 



ALICE DUER MILLER — EDWARD A. U. VALENTINE 



731 



That a smile amends — 


A SONNET 


It took no more 




To make us friends. 


Dear, if you love me, hold me most your 




friend. 


An evening breeze, 


Chosen from out the many who would 


The year in bloom, 


bear 


Lips quickly met 


Your gladness gladly — heavily your care ; 


In the garden's gloom; 


Who best can sympathize, best comprehend. 


The trees about us, 


Where others fail; who, breathless to the 


The stars above — 


end. 


It took no more 


Follows your tale of joy or of despair. 


To teach us love. 


Hold me your counsellor, because I dare 




To lift my hand to guide you, that I lend 


Frost in the air — 


My love to help you. And I would you 


The air like wine — 


knew 


Go you your way, 


That I am fair enough to win men's hearts, 


And I '11 go mine. 


If so I willed ; yet honor me above 


Lightly we part 


All other women, since I am too true 


Who lightly met — 


To trap you with my sex's smaller arts. 


What more is needed. 


Deem me all these, but love me as your 


When both forget ? 


love. 



aEUtaarti ^* B. "Balmtint 



HELEN 

She sits within the white oak hall, 

Hung with the trophies of the chase — 

Helen, a stately maid and tall, 
Dark-haired and pale of face ; 

With drooping lids and eyes that brood. 

Sunk in the depths of some strange 
mood. 
She gazes in the fireplace, where 
The oozing pine logs snap and flare, 

Wafting the perfume of their native wood. 

The wind is whining in the garth. 

The leaves are at their dervish rounds. 

The flexile" flames upon the hearth 

Hang out their tongues like panting 
hounds. 

The fire, I deem, she holds in thrall; 

Its red light fawns as she lets fall 

Escaloped pine-cones, dried and brown. 
From loose, white hands, till up and 
down 

The colored shadows dye the dusky wall. 

The tawny lamp flame tugs its wick; 

Upon the landing of the stair 
The ancient clock is heard to tick 

In shadows dark as Helen's hair; 



And by a gentle accolade 
A squire to languid silence made, 
I lean upon my palms, with eyes 
O'er which a rack of fancy flies, 
While dreams like gorgeous sunsets flame 
and fade. 

And as I muse on Helen's face, 
Within the firelight's ruddy shine, 

Its beauty takes an olden grace 

Like hers whose fairness was divine; 

The dying embers leap, and, lo ! 

Troy wavers vaguely all aglow. 

And in the north wind leashed without, 
I hear the conquering Argives' shout; 

And Helen feeds the flames as long ago ! 



THE SPIRIT OF THE WHEAT 

Such times as windy moods do stir 
The foamless billows of the wheat, 

I glimpse the floating limbs of her 
In instant visions melting sweet. 

A milky shoulder's dip and gleam. 
Or arms that clasp upon the air. 

An upturned face's rosy dream. 
Half blinded by the sunlit hair. 



732 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



A haunting mermaid mid the swell 
And rapture of that summer sea; 

A siren of elusive spell, 

Born of the womb of mystery, — 

That, airy-limbed, swims fancy free. 
Glad in the summer's perfect prime, 

Full-veined with life's felicity 

And faith that knows no winter-time. 

At eve, when firefly lustre burns 

On that green flood like mirrored stars, 

Against the hush her faint voice yearns. 
Breathed to a light harp's happy bars. 

Till sinks at last in sunset slow 
Midsummer's long, luxurious day, 



And amber-red the ripe waves glow, 
Ah, then it is she slips away ! 

For with the "blighting dog-star's blaze, 
The reapers wade within the wheat. 

And as they work in harvest ways. 

What amorous sights their vision cheat ! 

For lo, upon some eddying wash 
Or hollow of the wind-swept grain. 

Her wafted fingers foam-like flash, 
Her laughing body drifts amain. 

It is the sylph's divine farewell; 

A sighing ebbs along the wheat; 
Borne onward by a golden swell, 

She fades into the wrinkling heat. 



^Mtt ^rcJjer (^etoall) S^ame^ 



SINFONIA EROlCAi 

He comes, the happy warrior. 

The wind has blown him on ! 
He is great and terrible and sweet, 
From flaming hair to rapid feet. 
His presence strides the earth full-armed, 
complete. 

Oh, underneath his helmet-rim 

The crowded lilies lie. 
From some Elysian feast he comes. 
Struck with the passion of the drums. 
And fragrant from the feast, behold, he 

comes ! 

He holds all morning in his face, 

All fury and all fire. 
His panting heart bursts with disdain 
Of all that hinders him from pain; 
And mine with longing that he might re- 
main. 

THE BUTTERFLY 1 

I AM not what I was yesterday, 

God knows my name. 
I am made in a smooth and beautiful way, 

And full of flame. 



I kiss its topmost pearl, it swings 
And I swing too. 

I dance above the tawny grass 

In the sunny air. 
So tantalized to have to pass 

Love everywhere. 

Earth, O Sky, you are mine to roam 

In liberty. 

1 am the soul and I have no home, — 

Take care of me. 

For double I drift through a double world 

Of spirit and sense; 
I and my symbol together whirled 

From who knows whence ? 

There's a tiny weed, God knows what 
good, — 
It sits in the moss. 
Its wings are heavy ajid spotted with 
blood 
Across and across. 

I sometimes settle a moment there, 

And I am so sweet. 
That what it lacks of the glad and fair 

I fill complete. 



The color of corn are my pretty wings, [ The little white moon was once like me; 

My flower is blue. I But her wings are one. 

1 Copyright, 1899, by Harpek & Beothees. 



ALICE ARCHER (SEW ALL) JAMES — STEPHEN CRANE 733 



Or perhaps thej closed together be 
As she swings in the sun. 

When the clovers close their three green 
wings 

Just as I do, 
I creep to the primrose heart of things, 

And close mine, too. 

And then wide opens the candid night. 

Serene and intense ; 
For she has, instead of love and light, 

God's confidence. 

And I watch that other butterfly. 

The one-winged moon. 
Till, drunk with sweets in which I lie, 

I dream and swoon. 

And then when I to three days grow, 

I find out pain. 
For swift there comes an ache, — I know 

That I am twain. 

And nevermore can I be one 
In liberty. 



O Earth, O Sky, your use is done, 
Take care of me. 

PROCESSIONAL! 

My love leads the white bulls to sacri- 
fice. 

He is white, and he leans against their 
folded necks. 

Blue is the sky behind them, and the dust 
from the highway yellows his ivory 
limbs. 

He leans and moves, restraining, yet drawn 
on by tossing heads. 

He feels the festal music ; rapid and strong 
are his arms and breast; 

Yet from his waist beneath, loose and slow 
is his resting pace. 

Flowers are in his hair, and he is fair. 

He thinks he is but strong; he can over- 
come. 

And his mind sees only the impatient horns ; 

But my heart sees his slimness, and would 
care for him like a mothero 
My love leads the white bulls to sacri- 
fice. 



Mtpf^en Crane 



THE PEAKS 



In the night 

Gray, heavy clouds muffled the valleys. 
And the peaks looked toward God alone. 
" O Master, that movest the wind with 

a finger. 
Humble, idle, futile peaks are we. 
Grant that we may run swiftly across 

the world 
To huddle in worship at Thy feet." 

In the morning 

A noise of men at work came the clear 

blue miles. 
And the little black cities were apparent. 
*' O Master, that knowest the meaning 

of raindrops. 
Humble, idle, futile peaks are we. 
Give voice to us, we pray, O Lord, 
That we may sing Thy goodness to 
the sun." 

In the evening 

The far valleys were sprinkled with tiny 
lights. 

1 Copyright, 1899, by 



" O Master, 

Thou that knowest the value of kings 

and birds, 
Thou hast made us humble, idle, futile 



Thou only needest eternal patience; 
We bow to Thy wisdom, Lord — 
Humble, idle, futile peaks." 

In the night 

Gray, heavy clouds muffled the valleys, 

And the peaks looked toward God alone. 

'SCAPED 

Once I knew a fine song, 
— It is true, believe me, — 
It was all of birds. 
And I held them in a basket; 
When I opened the wicket, 
Heavens ! they all flew away. 
I cried, " Come back, Little Thoughts ! " 
But they only laughed. 
They flew on 
Until they were as sand 
Thrown between me and the sky. 
Harfeb & Bbotbebs. 



734 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



THE BLACK RIDERS 

Black riders came from the sea. 

There was clang and clang of spear and 

shield, 
And clash and clash of hoof and heel, 
Wild shouts and the wave of hair 
In the rush upon the wind: 
Thus the ride of sin. 

WHY? 

Behold, the grave of a wicked man, 
And near it, a stern spirit. 

There came a drooping maid with vio- 
lets, 
But the spirit grasped her arm. 
" No flowers for him," he said. 
The maid wept: 
" Ah, I loved him." 
But the spirit, grim and frowning: 
" No flowers for him." 

Now, this is it — 

If the spirit was just, 

Why did the maid weep ? 

THE WAYFARER 

The wayfarer, 

Perceiving the pathway to truth. 

Was struck with astonishment. 

It was thickly grown with weeds. 

" Ha," he said, 

" I see that none has passed here 

In a long time." 

Later he saw that each weed 

Was a singular knife. 

" Well," he mumbled at last, 

" Doubtless there are other roads." 

CONTENT 

A YOUTH in apparel that glittered 

Went to walk in a grim forest. 

There he met an assassin 

Attired all in garb of old days; 

He, scowling through the thickets, 

And dagger poised quivering, 

Rushed upon the youth. 

" Sir," said this latter, 

' ' I am enchanted, believe me. 

To die thus. 

In this mediaeval fashion, 



According to the best legends; 
Ah, what joy ! " 

Then took he the wound, smiling. 
And died, content. 



ANCESTRY 

Once I saw mountains angry, 
And ranged in battle-front. 
Against them stood a little man ; 
Ay, he was no bigger than my finger. 
I laughed, and spoke to one near me, 
" Will he prevail ? " 
" Surely," replied this other; 
" His grandfathers beat them many times." 
Then did I see much virtue in grand- 
fathers, — 
At least, for the little man 
Who stood against the mountains. 



THE VIOLETS 

There was a land where lived no violets. 
A traveller at once demanded: " Why ? " 
The people told him: 

"Once the violets of this place spoke thus: 
' Until some woman freely gives her 

lover 
To another woman 
We will fight in bloody scuffle.' " 
Sadly the people added: 
" There are no violets here." 



I EXPLAIN 

I EXPLAIN the silvered passing of a ship at 

night, 
The sweep of each sad lost wave, 
The dwindling boom of the steel thing's 

striving. 
The little cry of a man to a man, 
A shadow falling across the grayer night, 
And the sinking of the small star; 

Then the waste, the far waste of waters, 
And the soft lashing of black waves 
For long and in loneliness. 

Remember, thou, O ship of love. 
Thou leavest a far waste of waters, 
And the soft lashing of black waves 
For long and in loneliness. 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



735 



i$tthttt 25aj6fJ)forrti 



THE ARID LANDS 

These lands are clothed in burning weather, 
These parched lauds pant for God's cool 
rain; 

I look away where strike together 
The burnished sky and barren plain. 

I look away; no green thing gladdens 
My weary eye — no flower, no tree. 

Naught save the earth, the sage-brush sad- 
dens 
The scorched, gray earth that sickens 



Oh for the pines, where the sweet wind 
revels ! 
The ringing laugh of the crystal creek ! 
Alas, gaunt Hunger haunts these levels, 
And Thirst goes wandering wan and 
weak. 

No shadow falls where swiftly passes 
The gray coyote's noiseless feet. 

No song of bird, no hint of grasses — 
The home of Silence and of Heat ! 



BY THE PACIFIC 

From this quaint cabin window I can see 

The strange, vague line of ghostly drift- 
wood, though 

No ray of silver moon or soft star-glow 

Steals through the summer night's solem- 
nity. 

Pale forms drive landward and wild figures 
flee 

Like spectres up the shore; I hear the 
slow, 

Firm tread of marching billows which I 
know 

Will walk beside the years that are to be. 

Sweet, gentle sleep is banished from mine 
eyes; 

I lie and think of wrecks until the sobs 

And groans of drowning sailors, lost at 
sea, 

Come mingled with the gray gulls' plain- 
tive cries 

And those tumultuous, incessant throbs — 

The heavy heart-beats of Eternity. 



NIGHT IN CAMP 

Fierce burns our fire of driftwood; over- 
head 

Gaunt maples lift long arms against the 
night; 

The stars are sobbing, — sorrow-shaken, 
white, 

And high they hang, or show sad eyes 
grown red 

With weeping for their queen, — the moon, 
just dead. 

Black shadows backward reel when tall 
and bright 

The broad flames stand and fling a golden 
light 

On mats of soft green moss around us 
spread. 

A sudden breeze comes in from off the sea, 

The vast, old forest draws a troubled 
breath, 

A leaf awakens; up the shore of sand 

The slow tide, silver-lipped, creeps noise- 
lessly; 

The campfire dies; then silence deep as 
death ; 

The darkness pushing down upon the land. 



MORNING IN CAMP 

A BED of ashes and a half-burned brand 
Now mark the spot where last night's 

campfire sprung 
And licked the dark with slender, scarlet 

tongue ; 
The sea draws back from shores of yellow 

sand. 
Nor speaks lest he awake the sleeping land. 
Tall trees grow out of shadows; high among 
Their sombre boughs one clear, sweet song 

is sung, 
In deep ravine by drooping cedars spanned. 
All drowned in gloom ; a flying pheasant's 

whirr 
Rends morning's solemn hush; gray rabbits 

run 
Across the clovered glade, while far away 
Upon the hills each huge, expectant fir 
Holds open arms in welcome to the sun — 
Great, pulsing heart of bold, advancing 

day ! 



736 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



QUATRAINS 

MOUNT RAINIER 

Long hours we toiled up through the sol- 
emn wood 
Beneath moss-banners stretched from 
tree to tree; 
At last upon a barren hill we stood 
And, lo, above loomed Majesty ! 

ALONG SHORE 

What wondrous sermons these seas preach 
to men ! 



What lofty pinnacles they seek to 

climb ! 
How old and bent they are, yet strong as 

when 
They rocked the infant Time ! 



SUNSET 



Like some huge bird that sinks to 
rest, 

The. sun goes down — a weary thing — 
And o er the water's placid breast 

It lays a scarlet, outstretched wing. 



Mwj^ttt i^ug()c^ 



FOR DECORATION DAY 



1861-1865 
But do we truly mourn our soldier dead, 
Or understand at all their precious fame — 
We that were born too late to feel the 

flame 
That leapt from lowly hearths, and grew, 

dispread. 
And, like a pillar of fire, our armies led ? 
Or you that knew them — do the long years 

tame 
The memory-auguish ? Are they more 

than name ? 
Oh, let no stinted grief profane their bed ! 
Let tears bedew each wreath that decks 

the lawn 
Of every grave ! and raise a solemn prayer 
That their battalioned souls be joined to 

fare 
Dim roads, beyond the trumpets of the 

dawn, 
Yet perfumed, somehow, by our flowers 

that heap 
The peaceful barracks where their bodies 

sleep. 

II 

I 898-1 899 

And now the long, long lines of the 

Nation's graves 
Grow longer; and the venerate slopes 

reveal 



The fresh spring turf gashed thick with 
tombs to seal 

Away another army of our braves. 

So hang black garlands from the archi- 
traves 

Of all the Capitols. The dying peal 

Of bugles wails their final Taps. So kneel 

And give the dead the due their virtue 
craves. 

Thank God, the olden sinew still is bred; 

The milk of American mothers still is sweet; 

The sword of Seventy-six is sharp and 
bright ; 

The Flag still floats unblotted with defeat ! 

But ah the blood that keeps its ripples red. 

The starry lives that keep its field alight; 

The pangs of women and the tears they 've 
bled 



The Lord enlarge our spirits till we feel 
The greatness of these spirits upward fled. 
A kind of genius it has been that fed 
Them strength to be, above all passions, 

leal. 
They put aside the velvet for the steel, 
Left love, and hope, and ease at home ; and 

sped 
To the wilderness of war and every dread. 
Their blood is mortar for our commonweal; 
Their deeds its decoration and its boast. 
So mix with dirges, triumph ; smiles, with 

tears. 
Make sorrow perfect with exultant pride — 
Our vanished armies have not truly died; 



RUPERT HUGHES — PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 



737 



They march to-day before the heavenly 


As the Yankee troops — with glory armed 


host ; 


and shod — 


And history's veterans raise a storm of 


In Grand Review swing past the throne of 


cheers, 


God. 



^aul %ammtt 2Duntiatr 



A CORN-SONG 

On the wide veranda white, 

In the purple failing light, 

Sits the master while the sun is lowly 

burning; 
And his dreamy thoughts are drowned 
In the softly flowing sound 
Of the corn-songs of the field-hands slow 

returning. 

Oh, we hoe de cd'n 
Since de ehly md'n ; 
Now de sinkin' sun 
Says de day is done. 

O'er the fields with heavy tread, 
Light of heart and high of head, 
Though the halting steps be labored, slow, 

and weary; 
Still the spirits brave and strong 
Find a comforter in song, 
And their corn-song rises ever loud and 

cheery. 

Oh, we hoe de co'n 
Since de ehly mo'n j 
Noio de sinki7i' sun 
Says de day is done. 

To the master in his seat. 
Comes the burden, full and sweet, 
Of the mellow minor music growing clearer, 
As the toilers raise the hymn, 
Thro' the silence dusk and dim, 
To the cabin's restful shelter drawing 
nearer. 

Oh, we hoe de cd'n 
Since de ehly md'n j 
Now de sinkin' sun 
Says de day is done. 

And a tear is in the eye 

Of the master sitting by. 

As he listens to the echoes low-replying, 

To the music's fading calls, 



As it faints away and falls 

Into silence, deep within the cabin dying. 

Oh, we hoe de co'n 
Since de ehly mo'n ; 
Now de sinkin' sun 
Says de day is done. 



HARRIET BEECHER STOWE 

She told the story, and the whole world 

wept , 
At wrongs and cruelties it had not known 
But for this fearless woman's voice alone. 
She spoke to consciences that long had 

slept : 
Her message. Freedom's clear reveille, 

swept 
From heedless hovel to complacent throne. 
Command and prophecy were in the tone, 
And from its sheath the sword of justice 

leapt. 
Around two peoples swelled a fiery wave. 
But both came forth transfigured from the 

flame. 
Blest be the hand that dared be strong to 

save. 
And blest be she who in our weakness 

came — 
Prophet and priestess ! At one stroke she 

gave 
A race to freedom and herself to fame. 



RETORT 

"Thou art a fool," said my head to my 

heart, 
" Indeed, the greatest of fools thou art, 

To be led astray by the trick of a tress. 
By a smiling face or a ribbon smart; " 

And my heart was in sore distress. 

Then Phyllis came by, and her face was 

fair, 
The light gleamed soft on her raven hair; 



738 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



And her lips were blooming a rosy red. 
Then my heart spoke out with a right bold 
air: 
" Thou art worse than a fool, O head ! " 



ON THE ROAD 

I 's boun' to see my gal to-night — 

Oh, lone de way, my dearie ! 
De moon ain't out, de stars ain't bright ■ 

Oh, lone de way, my dearie ! 
Dis boss o' mine is pow'ful slow, 
But when I does git to yo' do' 
Yo' kiss '11 pay me back, an' mo'. 
Dough lone de way, my dearie. 

De night is skeery-lak an' still — 
Oh, lone de way, my dearie ! 

'Cept f u' dat mou'nf ul whippo'will — 
Oh, lone de way, my dearie ! 

De way so long wif dis slow pace, 

'T 'u'd seem to me lak savin' grace 

Ef you was on a nearer place, 
Fu' lone de way, my dearie. 

I hyeah de hootin' of de owl — 
Oh, lone de way, my dearie ! 

I wish dat watch-dog would n't howl — 
Oh, lone de way, my dearie ! 

An' evaht'ing bofe right an' lef. 

Seem p'in'tly lak hit put itse'f 

In shape to skeer me half to def — 
Oh, lone de way, my dearie ! 

I whistles so 's I won't be feared — 

Oh, lone de way, my dearie ! 
But anyhow I 's kin' o' skeered, 

Fu' lone de way, my dearie. 
De sky been lookin' mighty glum. 
But you kin mek hit lighten some, 
Ef you '11 jes' say you 's glad I com^ 
Dough lone de way, my dearie. 



HYMN 

O li'l' lamb out in de col', 
De Mastah call you to de fol', 
O liT iamb ! 



He hyeah you bleatin' on de hill; 
Come hyeah an' keep yo' mou'nin' still, 
O liT lamb ! 

De Mastah sen' de Shepud fo'f ; 
He wandah souf, he wandah no'f, 

O li'F lamb ! 
He wandah eas', he wandah wes'; 
De win' a-wrenchin' at his breas', 

O liT lamb ! 

Oh, tell de Shepud whaih you hide; 
He want you walkin' by his side, 

O li'l' lamb ! 
He know you weak, he know you so'; 
But come, don' stay away no mo', 

O liT lamb ! 

An' af ah while de lamb he hyeah 
De Shepud's voice a-callin' cleah — 

Sweet liT lamb ! 
He answah f'om de brambles thick, 
" O Shepud, I 's a-comin' quick" — 

O liT lamb ! 



A DEATH SONG 

Lay me down beneaf de willers in de 

grass, 
Whah de branch 'U go a-singin' as it pass. 

An' w'en I 's a-layin' low, 

I kin hyeah it as it go 
Singin', " Sleep, my honey, tek yo' res' at 

Lay me nigh to whah hit meks a little pool. 
An' de watah stan's so quiet lak an' cool, 
Whah de little birds in spring 
Ust to come an' drink an' sing. 
An' de chillen waded on dey way to school. 

Let me settle w'en my shouldahs draps 

dey load 
Nigh enough to hyeah de noises in de 
road; 
Fu' I t'ink de las' long res' 
Gwine to soothe my sperrit bes' 
Ef I 's layin' 'mong de t'ings I 's alius 
knowed. 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



739 



Sr^arp ^t0til f cuoUojEfa 



SUNRISE IN THE HILLS OF 
SATSUMA 

The day unfolds like a lotus bloom, 

Pink at the tip and gold at the core, 
Rising up swiftly through waters of gloom 
That lave night's shore. 

Down bamboo-stalks the sunbeams slide, 

Darting like glittering elves at play, 
To the thin arched grass where crickets 
hide 

And sing all day. 

The old crows caw from the camphor 
boughs. 
They have builded there for a thousand 
years ; 
Their nestlings stir in a huddled drowse 
To pipe shrill fears. 

A white fox creeps to his home in the 
hill, 
A small gray ape peers up at the 
sun; 
Crickets and sunbeams are quarrelling 
still; 
Day has begun. 



FLYING FISH 

Out where the sky and the sky-blue sea 

Merge in a raist of sheen, 
Tliere started a vision of silver things, 
A leap and a quiver, a flash of wings 

The sky and the sea between. 

Is it of birds from the blue above, 
Or fish from the depths that be ? 

Or is it the ghosts 

In silver hosts 
Of birds that were drowned at sea ? 



MIYOKO SAN 

Snare me the soul of a dragon-fly, 

The jewelled heart of a dew-tipped spray, 

A star's quick eye. 

Or the scarlet cry 



Of a lonely wing on a dawn-lit bay. 
Then add the gleam of a golden fan, 
And I will paint you Miyoko San. 

Find me the thought of a rose, at sight 
Of her own pale face in a fawning stream. 
The polished night 
Of a crow's slow flight. 
And the long, sweet grace of a willow's 
dream. 
Then add the droop of a golden fan, 
And I will paint you Miyoko San. 

Lure me a lay from a sunbeam's throat, 
The chant of bees in a perfumed lair. 
Or a single note 
Gone mad to float 
To its own sweet death in the upper air. 

Then add the click of a golden fan, 
* And I have painted Miyoko San. 



A DRIFTING PETAL 

If I, athirst by a stream, should kneel 
With never a blossom or bud in sight, 
Till down on the theme of its liquid night 
The moon-white tip of a sudden keel, 

A fairy boat. 
Should dawn and float 
To my hand, as only the Gods deserve. 
The cloud-like curve, 
The loosened sheaf. 
The ineffable pink of a lotus leaf, — 
I should know, I should feel, that far 

away 
On the dimpled rim of a brighter day 
A thought had blossomed, and shaken 

free 
One sheath of its innermost soul for me. 



YUKI 

When cherry flowers begin to blow 
With Yuki's face beneath them. 

The richest petals lose their glow, 
And small buds haste to sheath them. 

When blue wistaria hangs its head 
And Yuki leans above it, 



740 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



The swallow flits discomforted, — 
With none to see or love it. 

When lotus blossoms open wide, 
And beckon men to dreaming, 

My Yuki smiles, — and all their pride 
Is but a perfumed seeming. 

When snow is white on moat and tree 
And crusts each bamboo feather. 

My Yuki lifts her eyes to me, — 
'T is all I know of weather. 



MORNING FANCY 

O LET me die a-singing ! 

O let me drown in light ! 
Another day is winging 

Out from the nest of night. 

The morning-glory's velvet eye 
Brims with a jewelled bead. 

To-day my soul 's a dragon-fly, 
The world a swaying reed. 



((Btact €nerp Cjjanning^^tet^on 



ENGLAND 

Who comes to England not to learn 

The love for her his fathers bore, 
Breathing her air, can still return 

No kindlier than he was before. 

In vain, for him, from shore to shore 
Those fathers strewed an alien strand 

With the loved names that evermore 
Are native to our ear and land. 

Who sees the English elm-trees fling 
Long shadows where his footsteps pass, 

Or marks the crocuses that spring 
Sets starlike in the English grass, 
And sees not, as within a glass. 

New England's loved reflection rise, — 
Mists darker and more dense, alas ! 

Than England's fogs are in his eyes. 

And who can walk by English streams, 
Through sunny meadows gently led, 
Nor feel, as one who lives in dreams. 

The wound with which his fathers 

bled, — 
The homesick tears which must, un- 
shed, 
Have dimmed the brave, unfaltering eyes 
That saw New England's elms out- 
spread 
Green branches to her loftier skies ? 

How dear to exiled hearts the sound 
Of little brooks that run and sing ! 

How dear, in scanty garden ground, 
The crocus calling back the spring 

■ To English hearts remembering ! 



How dear that aching memory 

Of cuckoo cry and lark's light wing ! 
And for their sake how dear to me ! 

Who owns not how, so often tried. 

The bond all trial hath withstood; 
The leaping pulse, the racial pride 

In more than common brotherhood; 

Nor feels his kinship like a flood 
Rise blotting every dissonant trace, — 

He is not of the ancient blood ! 
He is not of the Island race ! 



WAR 

The great Republic goes to war, 

But spring still comes as spring has done. 
And all the summer months will run 
Their summer sequence as before; 
And every bird will build its nest. 
The sun sink daily in the west, 

And rising eastward bring new day 

In the old way. 

But ah, those dawns will have a light, 

Those western skies burn golden bright, 

With what a note the birds will sing, 

And winter's self be turned to spring 

Than any springtime sweeter far. 
When once again, calm entering, 

The great Republic comes from war ! 



JUDGMENT 

A DEAD Soul lay in the light of day, 
Desperate, wan, it had passed; 



MRS. CHANNING-STETSON — GUY WETMORE CARRYL 741 



Oft foiled, it had toiled on its upward way, 

Till it perished, spent, aghast. 
After a thousand defeats the prey 

Of its conquering sin at last. 

Said a stranger: — " Lo, how in shame and 
woe 
Is Satan's seal ever set ! " 
Laughed a foe: — " Doth the carrion lie so 
low? 
Death and a coward well met." 
Said a friend : — " His strength was great, 
I know, 
But his weakness was stronger yet." 

Moaned his love unwed: — " Peace to the 
dead; 

And as God shall forgive — let be ! " 
But an angel spread o'er the prostrate head 

His wings in humility; 



As he gazed: — "Be praised, great God," 
he said, 
" For a glorious victory ! " 



A SONG OF ARNO 

It is the hour when Arno turns 

Her gold to chrysoprase; 
When each low-hanging star outburns 

Its faint, mysterious rays. 
As from the prison of faery urns 

Which faery hands upraise. 

It is the hour when life 's constraint 

A moment's ease is given; 
When Earth is like a holy saint, 

Stilled, sanctified, and shriven. 
And the deep-breathing heart grows faint 

To be so near to Heaven. 



<!Bup Wttmotc €attpl 



WHEN THE GREAT GRAY SHIPS 
COME INi 



(new YORK HARBOR, AUGUST 20, I 



To eastward ringing, to westward winging, 

o'er mapless miles of sea, 
On winds and tides the gospel rides that 

the furthermost isles are free. 
And the furthermost isles make answer, 

harbor, and height, and hill. 
Breaker and beach cry each to each, " 'T is 

the Mother who calls ! Be still ! " 
Mother ! new-found, beloved, and strong to 

hold from harm, 
Stretching to these across the seas the 

shield of her sovereign arm. 
Who summoned the guns of her sailor sons, 

who bade her navies roam. 
Who calls again to the leagues of main, 

and who calls them this time home ! 

And the great gray ships are silent, and 

the weary watchers rest. 
The black cloud dies in the August skies, 

and deep in the golden west 
Invisible hands are limning a glory of 

crimson bars. 
And far above is the wonder of a myriad 

wakened stars ! 

» Copyright, 1898, by 



Peace ! As the tidings silence the strenu- 
ous cannonade, 

Peace at last ! is the bugle blast the length 
of the long blockade, 

And eyes of vigil weary are lit with the 
glad release, 

From ship to ship and from lip to lip it is 
" Peace ! Thank God for peace." 

Ah, in the sweet hereafter Columbia still 

shall show 
The sons of these who swept the seas how 

she bade them rise and go, — 
How, when the stirring summons smote on 

her children's ear, 
South and North at the call stood forth, and 

the whole land answered, " Here ! " 
For the soul of the soldier's story and the 

heart of the sailor's song 
Are all of those who meet their foes as 

right should meet with wrong, 
Who fight their guns till the foeman runs, 

and then, on the decks they trod. 
Brave faces raise, and give the praise to 

the grace of their country's God ! 

Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be 

strong and free. 
To carry the hearts of a people to the 

uttermost ends of sea, 
Habfeb & Bbothkbs. 



742 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



To see the day steal up the bay where the 

enemy lies in wait, 
To run your ship to the harbor's lip and 

sink her across the strait : — 
But better the golden evening when the 

ships round heads for home, 
And the long gray miles slip swiftly past 

in a swirl of seething foam, 
And the people wait at the haven's gate to 

greet the men who win ! 
Thank God for peace ! Thank God for 

peace, when the great gray ships 

come in ! 



THE SYCOPHANTIC FOX AND 
THE GULLIBLE RAVENi 

A KAVEN sat upon a tree. 

And not a word he spoke, for 

His beak contained a piece of Brie, 

Or, maybe, it was Roquefort: 

We '11 make it any kind you please — 
At all events, it was a cheese. 

Beneath the tree's umbrageous limb 

A hungry fox sat smiling; 
He saw the raven watching him. 
And spoke in words beguiling: 

"J''admire" said he, "'ton beau plu- 
mage," 
(The which was simply persiflage). 

Two things there are, no doubt you know. 

To which a fox is used, — 
A rooster that is bound to crow, 

A crow that 's bound to roost, 



And whichsoever he espies 

He tells the miost unblushing lies. 

" Sweet fowl," he said, " I understand 

You 're more than merely natty: 
I hear you sing to beat the band 
And Adelina Patti. 

Pray render with your liquid tongue 
A bit from ' Gotterdammeruug.' " 

This subtle speech was aimed to please 

The crow, and it succeeded: 
He thought no bird in all the trees 
Could sing as well as he did. 
In flattery completely doused, 
He gave the " Jewel Song " froin 
" Faust." 

But gravitation's law, of course, 

As Isaac Newton showed it. 
Exerted on the cheese its force. 
And elsewhere soon bestowed it. 
In fact, there is no need to tell 
What happened when to earth it fell. 

I blush to add that when the bird 

Took in the situation 
He said one brief, emphatic word, 
Unfit for publication. 

The fox was greatly startled, but 

He only sighed and answered " Tut ! " 

The moral is: A fox is bound 

To be a shameless sinner. 
And also: When the cheese comes round 
You know it 's after dinner. 

But (what is only known to few) 
The fox is after dinner, too. 



a^ilbrcti i^otodlief 



ROMANCE 

Down from a sunken doorstep to the 
road. 
Through a warm garden full of old-time 
flowers. 
Stretches a pathway, where the wrinkled 
toad 
Sits lost in sunlight through long sum- 
mer hours. 



Ah, little dream the passers in the street 
That there, a few yards from the old 
house door. 
Just where the apple and the pear trees meet. 
The noble deeds of old are lived once 
more ! — 

That there, within the gold-lit wavering 
shade, 
To Joan of Arc angelic voices sing, 



1 Copyright, 1898, by Harper & Brothers. 



MILDRED HOWELLS — GEORGE CABOT LODGE 



743 



And once again the brave inspired maid 
Gives up her life for France and for her 
king. 

Or, now no more the fields of France are 
seen, 
They change to England's rougher, 
colder shore. 
Where rules Elizabeth, the Virgin Queen, 
Or where King Arthur holds his court 
once more. 

The stupid village folk they cannot see; 

Their eyes are old, and as they pass their 
way. 
It only seems to them beneath the tree 

They see a little dark-eyed girl at play. 

A MORAL IN SEVRES 

Upon my mantel-piece they stand, 

While all its length between them lies; 

He throws a kiss with graceful hand, 
She glances back with bashful eyes. 

The china Shepherdess is fair. 

The Shepherd's face denotes a heart 

Burning with ardor and despair. 
Alas, they stand so far apart ! 



And yet, perhaps, if they were moved, 
And stood together day by day, 

Their love had not so constant proved, 
Nor would they still have smiled so 

gay- 

His hand the Shepherd might have kissed 
The match-box Angel's heart to win ; 

The Shepherdess, his love have missed, 
And flirted with the Mandarin. 

But on my mantel-piece they stand. 
While all its length between them lies; 

He throws a kiss with graceful hand. 
She glances back with bashful eyes. 



DOWN A WOODLAND WAY 

As I was strolling down a woodland way, 
I met fair Spring, a garland on her 
arm; 

She stood a moment gazing in dismay. 
Then turned and fled away in swift alarm. 

And as I strove to follow her swift flight 
Along the way that I had seen her pass. 

No trace of her remained to meet my sight 
Save three wild violets among the grass. 



(Scorge CaBot Hotrge 



A SONG OF THE WAVE 

This is the song of the wave ! The mighty 

one ! 
Child of the soul of silence, beating the air 

to sound. 
White as a live terror, as a drawn sword, 
This is the wave ! 

This is the song of the wave, the white- 

maned steed of the Tempest, 
Whose veins are swollen with life, 
In whose flanks abide the four winds, 
This is the wave I 

This is the song of the wave ! The dawn 

leaped out of the sea 
And the waters lay smooth as a silver 

shield. 
And the sun-rays smote on the waters like 

a golden sword. 



Then a wind blew out of the morning 
And the waters rustled. 

And the wave was born ! 

This is the song of the wave ! The wind 

blew out of the noon, 
And the white sea-birds like driven foam 
Winged in from the ocean that lay beyond 

the sky; 
And the face of the waters was barred with 

white. 

For the wave had many brothers. 
And the wave leaped up in its strength 
To the chant of the choral air: 

This is the wave ! 

This is the song of the wave ! The wind 

blew out of the sunset 
And the west was lurid as Hell; 
The black clouds closed like a tomb, for 

the sun was dead. 



744 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



Then the wind smote full as the breath of 
God, 
And the wave called to its brothers, 
" This is the crest of life ! " 

This is the song of the wave, that rises to 

fall, 
Rises a sheer green wall like a barrier of 

glass 
That has caught the soul of the moonlight. 
Caught and prisoned the moonbeams. 
And its edge is frittered with blossoms of 

foam — 

This is the wave ! 

This is the song of the wave, of the wave 

that falls. 
Wild as a burst of day-gold blown through 

the colors of morning; 
It shivers in infinite jewels, in eddies of 

wind-driven foam 
Up the rumbling steep of sand. 

This is the wave ! 

This is the song of the wave, that died in 

the fulness of life. 
The prodigal this, that lavished its largess 

of strength 

In the lust of attainment. 



Aiming at things for Heaven too high, 
Sure in the pride of life, in the richness of 

strength. 
So tried it the impossible height, till the 

end was found: 
When ends the soul that yearns for the 

fillet of morning stars — 
The soul in the toils of the journeying 

worlds, 
Whose eye is filled with the Image of 

God — 

And the end is death ! 

YOUTH 

If I must die, 

The earth is inarticulate to sing 

The dirge I crave: 

The sorrow of the murmur-laden wave, 

The sea-born wind complaining 'neath the 

sky, 
And round my head the waters' silver ring. 

If I must live, 

And feel the ashes of oblivion 

About my soul, 

Let life be fearful, let me feel the whole. 

Despair, and face the sunrise — if I grieve 

Let it but be the tarrying of the sun. 



ipilticgarlie ]^atDt!)onte 



A SONG 

Sing me a sweet, low song of night 

Before the moon is risen, 
A song that tells of the stars' delight 

Escaped from day's bright prison, 
A song that croons with the cricket's voice. 

That sleeps with the shadowed trees, 
A song that shall bid my heart rejoice 

At its tender mysteries ! 

And then when the song is ended, love, 

Bend down your head unto me, 
Whisper the word that was born above 

Ere the moon had swayed the sea; 
Ere the oldest star began to shine, 

Or the farthest sun to burn, — 
The oldest of words, O heart of mine, 

Yet newest, and sweet to learn. 



MY ROSE 

On a green slope, most fragrant with the 
spring. 
One sweet, fair day I planted a red 
rose, 
That grew, beneath my tender nourishing, 

So tall, so riotous of bloom, that those 
Who passed the little valley where it grew 
Smiled at its beauty. AH the air was 
sweet 
About it ! Still I tended it, and knew 
That he would come, e'en as it grew 
complete. ^ 

And a day brought him ! Up I led him, 
where 
In the warm sun my rose bloomed glori- 
ously — 



HILDEGARDE HAWTHORNE — JOSEPHINE PEABODY 745 



Smiling and saying, " So, is it not fair ? 
And all for thee — all thine ! " But he 
passed by 
Coldly, and answered, " Rose ? I see no 
rose," 
Leaving me standing in the barren 
vale 



Alone ! alone ! feeling the darkness close 
Deep o'er my heart, and all my being fail. 

Then came one, gently, yet with eager 

tread. 
Begging one rosebud — but my rose was 

dead. 



Sio^epftine ^^rciefton ^eabobp 



Till 



PRELUDE 

Words, words. 
Ye are like birds. 
Would I might fold you, 
In my hands hold you 
ye were warm and your feathers 

a-flutter; 
Till, in your throats, 
Tremulous notes 
Foretold the songs ye would utter. 

Words, words. 
Ye are all birds ! 
Would ye might linger 
Here on my finger, 
Till 1 kissed each, and then sent you 
a-winging 
Wild, perfect flight, 
Through morn to night, 
Singing and singing and singing ! 



WOOD-SONG 

Love must be a fearsome thing 

That can bind a maid 
Glad of life as leaves in spring, 

Swift and unafraid. 

I could find a heart to sing 

Death and darkness, praise or blame; 
But before that name, 
Heedfully, oh, heedfuUy 

Do I lock my breast; 
I am silent as a tree, 

Guardf ul of the nest. 

Ah, my passing Woodlander, 

Heard you any note ? 
Would you find a leaf astir 

From a wilding throat ? 



Surely, all the paths defer 
Unto such a gentle quest. 
Would you take the nest ? 
Follow where the sun-motes are ! 

Truly 't is a sorrow 
I must bid you fare so far; 

Speed you, and good-morrow ! 

SONNET IN A GARDEN 

Dumb Mother of all music, let me rest 
On thy great heart while summer days 

pass by; 
While all the heat up-quivers, let me lie 
Close gathered to the fragrance of thy 

breast. 
Let not the pipe of birds from some high 

nest 
Give voice unto a thought of melody. 
Nor dreaming clouds afloat along the sky 
Meet any wind of promise from the west. 
Save for that grassy breath that never mars 
The peace, but seems a musing of thine 

own. 
Keep thy dear silence. So, embraced, 

alone, 
Forgetful of relentless prison-bars, 
My soul shall hear all songs, unsung, un- 
known, 
Uprising with the breath of all the stars. ' 

A CHANGELING GRATEFUL 

Here they give me greeting. 
House me warm within. 
Break their bread and share it 
With the heart of kin. 

Here the ruddy hearth-light 
Singes not a moth. 
Gives a summer welcome 
As a red rose doth. 



746 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



I would leave a gift here 


RUBRIC 


If I might : not I ! — 




Like a homeless laughter, 


I 'll not believe the dullard dark, 


Vagrant wind gone by. 


Nor all the winds that weep. 




But I shall find the farthest dream 


But while I am a glow-worm 


That kisses me, asleep. 


I will shine and stay: 




When I am a shadow . . . 


ISOLATION 


I will creep away. 






BROTHER Planets, unto whom I cry, 


CARAVANS 


Know ye, in all the worlds, a gladder 




thing 


What bring ye me, camels, across the 


Than this glad life of ours, this wan- 


southern desert, 


dering 


The wan and parching desert, pale beneath 


Among the eternal winds that wander 


the dusk ? 


by? 


Ye great slow-moving ones, faithful as 


Ever to fly, with white star-faces set 


care is faithful, 


Quenchless against the darkness, and 


Uncouth as dreams may be, sluggish as 


the wet 


far-ofE ships, — 


Pinions of all the storms, — on, on alone, 


What bring ye me, camels ? 


With radiant locks outblown. 




And sun-strong eyes to see 


*' We bring thee gold like sunshine, saving 


Into the sunless maze of all futurity ! 


that it warms not; 




And rarest purple bring we, as dark as all 


Not ours the little measure of the years, 


the garnered 


The bitter-sweet of summer that soou 


Bloom of many grape-vines; and spices 


wanes, 


subtly mingled 


The briefer benison of springtime 


For a lasting savor: the precious nard and 


rains ; 


aloes ; 


Nay, but the thirst of all the living 


The bitter-sweet of myrrh, like a sorrow 


spheres, 


having wings; 


Full-fed witl^^ mighty draughts of dark 


Ghostly breath of lilies bruised — how 


and light, — 


white they were ! — 


The soul of all the dawns, the love of 


And the captive life of many a far rose- 


night. 


garden. 


The strength of deathless winters, and the 


Jewels bring we hither, surely stars once 


boon 


fallen, 


Of endless summer noon. 


Torn again from darkness: the sunlit frost 


Look down, from star to star. 


of topaz. 


And see the centuries, — a flock of 


Moon-fire pent in opals, pearls that even 


birds, afar. 


the sea loves. 




Webs of marvel bring we, broideries that 


Afar ! But we, each one God's sentinel, 


have drunken 


Lifting on high the torches that are 


Deep of all life-color from a thousand 


His, 


lives, — 


Look forth to one another o'er the 


Each the royal cere-cloth of a century. 


abyss, 


We come ! What wouldst thou more ? " 


And cry, Eternity, — and all is well ! 




So ever journey we, and only know 


All this dust, these ashes, have ye brought 


The way is His, and unto Him we go. 


so far ? 


Through all the voiceless desert of the air 


All these days, these years, have I waited 


Through all the star-dust there, 


in the sun ? 


Where none has ever gone, 


I would have had the winged Mirage of 


Still singing, seeking still, we wander 


yonder desert. 


on and on. 



J 



JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY — JOSEPH LEISER 747 



brother Planets, ye to whom I cry, 


To lonely children straying far from home, 


Yet hath a strange dream touched me; 


Who know not how they wandered so, 


for a cloud 


nor whence. 


Flared like a moth, within mine eyes. 


* 


I bowed 


If I might follow far and far away 


My head, and, looking down through all 


Unto the country where these songs 


the sky, 


abide. 


I saw the little Earth, far down be- 


I think my soul would wake and find it 


low, — 


day, 


The Earth that all the wandering 


Would tell me who I am, and why I 


winds do know. 


stray,— 


Like some ground-bird, the small, beloved 


Would tell me who I was before I died. 


one 

Fluttered about the sun. 


A FAR-OFF ROSE 


Ah, were that little star 




Only a signal-light of love for us, afar ! 


FAR-OFF rose of long ago. 




An hour of sweet, an hour of red. 


AFTER MUSIC 


To live, to breathe, and then to go 




Into the dark ere June was dead ! 


I SAW not they were strange, the ways I 




roam. 


Why say they : Roses shall return 


Until the music called, and called me 


With every year as years go on ? 


thence. 


New springtime and strange bloom, my 


And tears stirred in my heart as tears may 


rose. 


come 


And alien June; but thou art gone. 



3[oj0fcjjj) %ti^tt 



KOL NIDRA 

FROM " THE DAY OF ATONEMENT " 

Lo ! above the mournful chanting. 
Rise the fuller-sounded wailings 
Of the soul's most solemn anthem. 
Hark ! the strains of deep Kol Nidra — 
Saddest music ever mortal 
Taught his lips to hymn or sound ! 

Not the heart of one lone mortal 
Told his anguish in that strain; 
All the sorrow, pain, and struggles 
Of a people in despair. 
Gathered from the vale of weeping, 
Through the ages of distress. 
'T is a mighty cry of beings 
Held in bondage and affliction; 
All the wailing and lamenting 
Of a homeless people, roaming 
O'er the plains and scattered hamlets 
Of a world without a refuge. 
All the sorrows, trials, bereavements, — 
Loss of country, home, and people, — 
In one mighty strain uniting, 



Chant for every age its wail; 
Make the suffering years reecho 
With the wounds and pains of yore; 
Give a voice to every martyr 
Ever hushed to death by pain. 
Every smothered shriek of daughter 
Burned upon the fagot's bier; 
Bring the wander-years and exile, 
Persecution's harsh assailment, 
Ghetto misery and hounding, 
To the ears of men to-day; 
Link the dark and dreary ages 
With the brighter future's glow; 
Weave the past and hopeful present; 
Bind the living with the sleeping, 
Dust unto the dust confessing. 
Even with the dead uniting. 
When the soul would join with God. 

Slowly creep the muffled murmursi 
As the leaves and flowers, conspiring, 
Steal a breeze from summer's chamber, 
Hum and mumble as they stroke it, 
Smooth, caress, and gently coy it. 
So this murmur spreads the voices 



748 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



Of the praying synagogue, 
As each lip repeats the sinning 
Of his selfish, godl^s living. 
By each mutter low recounting 
Every single sin and crime — 
How he falsified his neighbor, 
Made a stumbling-block for blindness, 
Cursed the deaf, unstaid the cripple, 
Played his son and daughter -wrong, 
Tattled of his wife's behavior. 
Made his father's age a load. 
Spoke belittling of his- mother, 
Took advantage of the stupid, 
Made the hungry buy their bread, 
Turned the needy from his threshold. 
Clothed the naked with his bareness, 
Shut the stranger from his fold, 
Never begged forgiveness, pardon. 
For a wrong aimed at a foe, 
Never weighed the love or mercy 
Of the Father of the world. 
Low the lips are now repenting; 
Every mutter is a sob 
Ebbing from the font of being; 
Conscience speaks in lowest accents, 
Lest the voice cry out to men. 

Who has ever heard Kol Nidra 
Gushing from the breast of man, 
Rising, falling, as the ocean 
Lifts the waves in joy or fear. 
From Time's ocean has it risen; 
Every age has lent a murmur. 
Every cycle built a wail; 
Every sorrow ever dwelling 
In the tortured heart of man, 
Tears and sighs together swelling. 
Answer for the pangs of ages. 
'T is the voice of countless pilgrims, 
Sons of Jacob, with a cry. 
Moaning, sighing, grieving, wailing. 
Answering in thousand voices 
Fate and destiny of man. 
Winning soul a consolation 
For their sad allotment's creed; 



Wander-song of homeless traveller, 

Outcast from the ranks of men; 

Echoes from the throes of mortals. 

Questioning the ways of God; 

Song hummed by the lonely desert, 

Prompted by the heart of night. 

Lisped across the sandy borders 

By the desert's trailing wind ; 

Hymn of midnight and the silence. 

Song the friendless stars intone. 

Sung whene'er the tempest hurtles, 

Bruits destruction to the world ; 

Song of every song of sorrow. 

Wail for every grief and woe, 

World affliction, world lamenting; 

Sorrow of the lonely desert; 

Sadness of a homeless people; 

Anguish of a chided mortal. 

Hounded, tracked, oppressed, and beaten, 

Made the scourge of God on earth; 

Outcry of a sinful bosom 

Warring with his guilt and wrong. 

'T is a saintly aspiration 

Of a holy soul in prayer; 

'T is the music hummed by mercy. 

When the heart is touched by love. 

'Tis the welding of all mercy/* 

Love, forgiveness, in a union. 

Sweeping o'er the span of ages. 

Flooding earth with one majestic. 

Universal hymn of woe, 

As if God had willed his children 

Weep in but one human strain. 

Who can hear this strange Kol Nidra 
Without dropping in the spell ? 
Lift the vestige of the present, 
Link the momentary fleeting 
Of the evening with the past; 
Dwell a spirit in the ages. 
Living in the heart of time : 
Lose the sense of outer worlds. 
Soul alone in endless time. 
Breathing but the breath of ages. 



i^otDatti Wcttm 



THE BANJO OF THE PAST 

YoTJ ax about dat miusic made 

On banjos long ago. 
An' wants to know why it ain't played 

By niggers any mo'. 



Dem banjos b'longed to by-gone days 
When times an' chunes was rare. 

When we was gay as children — 'case 
We did n't have a care. 



HOWARD WEEDEN — WILBUR UNDERWOOD 



749 



But when we got our freedom, we 
Found projeckin' was done; 

Our livin' was to make — you see, 
An' dat lef out de fun. 

We learned to vote an' read an' spell, 
We learned de taste ob tears — 

An' when you gets dat 'sponsible, 
De banjo disappears ! 



THE BORROWED CHILD 



My chile ? Lord, no, 
mine ; 

She 's des one I have tried 
To put in place of Anna Jane — 

My little one what died. 

Dat 's long ago ; no one but me 
Knows even where she lies: 



she 's none o' 



But in her place I 've always kept 
A borrowed chile, her size. 

As soon as it outgrows my chile, 
I lets it go, right straight — 

An' takes another in its place 
To match dat Heabenly mate. 

It 's took a sight o' chillin, sho'. 

To ease dat dull ol' pain. 
An' keep de pretty likeness fresh 

Of my dead Anna Jane. 

Der 's more den forty years, you see, 
Since she has been in Heaben, 

But wid de angels years don't count - 
So she *s still only seben. 

Time treats us all up dere, des lak 

It do white ladies here — 
It teches 'em so light — one 's still 

A gal at forty year ! 



THE CATTLE OF HIS HAND 



All night long through the starlit air and 

the stillness, 
Through the cool wanness of dawn and the 

burning of noontide, 
Onward we strain with a mighty resounding 

of hoof-beats. 

Heaven and earth are ashake with the 
terrible trampling; 

Wild, straying feet of a vast and hastening 
army; 

Wistful eyes that helplessly seek one an- 
other. 

Hushed is the dark to hear the plaint of our 

lowing. 
Mournful cry of the dumb-tired hearts 

within us. 
Faint to death with thirst and the gnawing 

of hunger. 

Day by day through the dust and heat have 

we thirsted; 
Day by day through stony ways have we 

hungered; 
Naught but a few bitter herbs that grew by 

the wayside. 



What we flee that is far behind in the 

darkness, 
Where the place of abiding for us, we know 

not; 
Only we hark for the voice of the Master 

Herdsman. 

Many a weary day must pass ere we 

hear it. 
Blown on the winds, now close, now far in 

the distance. 
Deep as the void above us and sweet as the 

dawn-star. 

He it is who drives us and urges us always, 
Faint with a need that is ever present 

within us. 
Struggling onward and toiling one by the 

other. 

Ever we long and cry for rest, but it comes 

not; 
Broke are our feet and sore and bruised 

by the climbing; 
Sharp is his goad in our quivering flanks 

when we falter, 

And some fall down with aplaintive moan- 
ing, and perish; 



75° 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



But upward we strain nor stop, for the 

Voice comes to us, 
Driving us on once more to the press and 

the struggle. 

Then when we know His Presence the hard 
way lightens; 

Turn we our piteous eyes to the far-stretch- 
ing highway; 

Struggle ahead in the dark as trusting as 
children. 

What we flee that is far behind in the 

darkness. 
Where the place of abiding for us, we know 

not; 



Only we hark for the Voice — till hope 
fades from us. 

Heaven and earth are ashake with the 

terrible trampling, 
Wild straying feet of a vast and hastening 

army. 
Wistful hearts that helplessly seek one 

another. 

All night long through the star-lit air and 
the stillness, 

Through the cool wanness of dawn and the 
burning of noontide. 

Onward we strain with a mighty resound- 
ing of hoof-beats. 



&m^ 5^toctor (Clarfee) ^apt^ 



TO A WILD ROSE FOUND IN 
OCTOBER 

Thof foolish blossom, all untimely blown ! 

Poor jest of summer, come when woods 

are chill ! 

Thy sister buds, in June's warm redness 

grown. 

That lit with laughter all the upland hill. 

Have traceless passed; save on each thorned 
stem 
Red drops tell how their hearts, in dying, 
bled. 
Theirs was the noon's rich languor, and 
for them 
The maiden moon her haloed beauty 
spread ; 

For them the bobolink his music spilled 
In bubbling streams; and well the wild 
bee knew 
Their honeyed hearts. Now bird and bee 
are stilled; 
Now southward swallows hurry down 
the blue. 

Fleeing the murderous Frost that even now 
Hath smote the marshes with his bitter 
breath, 
Quenching the flames that danced on vine 
and bough, — 
Think'st thou thy beauty will make truce 
with Death, 



Or hold in summer's leash his loosened 
wrath ? 
See ! o'er the shrunk grass trail the 
blackened vines; 
And, hark ! the wind, tracking the snow's 
fell path. 
Snarls like a fretted hound among the 
pines. 

The pallid sunshine fails, — a sudden 
gloom 
Sweeps up the vale, a-thrill with boding 
fear. 
What place for thee ? Too late thy pride 
and bloom ! 
Born out of time, — poor fool, — what 
dost thou here ? 



What do I here when speeds the threaten- 
ing blight ? 
June stirred my heart, and so June is for 
me. 
Who feels life's impulse bourgeon into light 
Recks not of seasons, knows not bird 
nor bee. 

I can but bloom, — did the June roses 
more ? 
I can but droop, — did they not also 
die? 
The Moment is: the After or Before 

Hides all from sight, — canst thou tell 
more than I ? 



EDNAH PROCTOR (CLARKE) HAYES 



751 



What matter if to-night come swirling snow 
And Death ? The Power that makes, 
that mars, is One. 
I know nor care not : when that Power bids 
blow, 
I ope my curled petals to the sun. 



A GOOD-BY 

The wakening bugles cut the night: 
" To horse ! To horse ! Away ! " 

And thine the lips that bid me go, 
The eyes that bid me stay. 

God make me blind for this one hour ! 

God make me only hear 
That hurrying drum, — that cry, " They 
come ! " 

And thy " Good-by ! " so near. 

O eyes that hold m6 with your tears ! 

Think not your prayers I spurn: 
Eyes that must for a soldier dim, 

Not from a craven turn. 

O lips that bid me forth to fight, 

I take your challenge — so ! 
Where red death waits without the gates. 

Thy knight, and God's, — I go ! 



THE DEATHLESS 

What charlatans in this later day 

Beat at the gates of Art ! 
Each with his trick of speech or brush, — 

Forgetting, that apart 

From all the brawling of an age, 

Its feverish fantasy, 
She waits, who only unto Time 

Tbe soul of Art sets free ! 

God's handmaid Beauty, — whose touch 
rounds 
A dewdrop or a world, — 
God-sprung when first through Chaos' 
night 
The morning wings unfurled; 

Beauty, — who still the secret gives 
Whispered the ages through, — 

Recurrent as the flush of dawn, 
Essential as the dew. 



O babblers of some surer guide ! — 
Knowledge goes changing by; 

Caprice may bloom its little hour. 
And creeds are born and die; 

Still Melos on her worshippers 
Looks with calm-lidded eyes; 

Still Helen, though Troy sleeps in dust. 
Smiles through the centuries ; 

Still she who gleaned on Judah's plain 
Love in her sheaves doth bind; 

Still, down the glades of Arden, dance 
The feet of Rosalind. 



THE MOCKING-BIRD 

List to that bird ! His song — what poet 
pens it ? 
Brigand of birds, he 's stolen every note ! 
Prince though of thieves — hark ! how the 
rascal spends it ! 
Pours the whole forest from one tiny 
throat ! 

THE DANCER 

Skin creamy as the furled magnolia bud 

That stabs the dusky shadows of her hair; 
Great startled eyes, and sudden-pulsing 
blood 
Staining her cheek and throat and shoul- 
der bare. 

(Ah Manuelito ! 
Lita Pepita ! 
List the cachucha ! 
Dance ! dance !) 

Swaying she stands, the while one rounded 
arm 
Draws her mantilla's folds in shy disguise, 
Till in the music's subtle, quickening 
charm 
Her tranced soul forgets the alien eyes. 

Fades the swift flush, save from the rose- 
soft mouth. 
And all the conquering memories of 
Spain 
Fling wide her veil; the vintage of the 
South 
Leaps in her heart, and laughs through 
every vein ! 



75« 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



(Ah Manuelita ! 
Star of Cordova ! 
Passion and innocence ! 
Dance! dance!) 

Gone from her gaze the stage, the mim- 
icry: 
Yon painted scene ? It is Cordova's 
walls ! 
The eager trumpets ring to revelry — 
The banderillero cries — the toro falls ! 

The vision thrills to heart, to eyes, to lips ; 
Her castanets click out in conscious 
pride ; 
Curved throat, arched foot, and lissome- 
swaying hips. 
The music sweeps her in its swirling tide. 

Love and denial, mockery and desire, 

A fountain tossing in its moody play. 
Tempest of sunshine, cloud, and dew, and 

fire. 
Dancing in joyance to the jocund day ! 



(Ah Manuelita ! 
Till the moon swoons in mist ! 
Till the stars dim and die ! 
Dance! dance!) 

Soft ! through the music steals a yearning 
strain, — 
Now distant viols grieve down the drowsy 
night, — 
Her fluttering feet are poised; then drift 
again, 
Luring in languor, dreamy with delight. 

(^Ah Manuelita ! 
Witch of the winged feet! 
Lead on to dream or death ! 
Dance ! dance !) 

Hushed in her heart are raptures and 

alarms ; 

Falling, as water falleth, to her knees, 

She spreads the drifted foam-wreath of 

her arms; 

The music dies in whispered ecstacies. 



5fcetienc iHitigelp Cotrcncc 



FROM "THE HOUSE OF A HUN- 
DRED LIGHTS" 

THE YOUNG LOVERS 

I SAW them kissing in the shade and knew 

the sum of all my lore : 
God gave them Youth, God gave them 

Love, and even God can give no 

more. 

I know not from the fading Rose with 
parted lips what whisper went. 

I only know the Nightingale sang once 
again his old lament. 

YOUTH AND AGE 

A NIGHTINGALE once lost his voice from 
too much love, and he who flees 

From Thirst to Wine-of-his-Desire must 
not forget the last — the lees. 

Night is a woman vaguely veiled and made 

to woo, I see her now: 
The newborn moon is suddenly her slender, 

golden, arched eyebrow. 



I know a Thief who longs to steal from the 

moon's granary on high. 
Or snatch the bunch of Pleiades from out 

the cornfield of the sky. 

Desire's gold gates are always barred and 

open at no call or knock. 
Age knows the only key is Pain, but Youth 

still thinks to force the lock. 

You invalids who cannot drink much wine 

or love, I say to you: 
" Content yourselves with laughing at the 

antics of the fools who do." 

COMPENSATION 

Tell Youth to play with Wine and Love 
and never bear away the scars ! 

I may as well tilt up the sky and yet try 
not to spill the stars. 

Yet even for Youth's fevered blood there 

is a certain balm herein 
This maiden's mouth: O sweet disease I 

and happy, happy medicine I 



FREDERIC RIDGELY TORRENCE — HELEN HAY 753 



And, maiden, should these bitter tears you 
shed be burdensome, know this : 

There is a cure worth all the pain — to- 
night — beneath the moon — ia kiss. 

Girl, when he gives you kisses twain, use 
one, and let the other stay. 

And hoard it; for moons die, red fades, and 
you may need a kiss — some day. 

One says, — " Truth 's false and false is 
true." Well, since I 've seen this 
maiden's eyes, 

I '11 be so false as to be true, and such a 
fool as to be wise. 

CARPE diem" 

When I 'm in health and asked to choose 
between the This and That, alas ! 

I all too gladly yield my throne up there 
beside the Sea of Glass. 



Why ! 'mongst all languages of earth 
there 's none so sweet nor yet so fine 

As that one spoken daily thrice by two and 
thirty teeth of mine. 

Yet what have I to do with sweets like 
Love, or Wine, or Fame's dear 
curse ? 

For I can do without all things except — 
except the universe. 

The sieve-like cup of Earthly Joy still 
foams for me with many a bead, 

But I have found another wine called 
Charity-without-a-Creed. 



And if I want to sleep, I '11 sleep more 
than Religion's laws allow. 

We '11 have a long sleep in the grave ere- 
long; and should we not learn how ? 

Whether my days are cooled with calm or 
filled with fever's ardent taint, 

I have the same blue sky as God, I have the 
same God as the saint. 

THE CONCLUSION OF THE WHOLE MAT- 
TER 

The Great Sword Bearer only knows just 
when He '11 wound my heart, — 
not I: 

But since He is the one who gives the 
balm, what does it signify ? 

If my Control should lose its hold on For- 
tune's collar through some hurt. 

What then ? — Why then I 'd simply cling 
to old gray Resignation's skirt. 

Of all the languages of earth in which the 

human kind confer 
The Master Speaker is the Tear: it is the 

Great Interpreter. 

Man's life is like a tide that weaves the 

sea within its daily web. 
It rises, surges, swells, and grows, — a pause 

— then comes the evening ebb. 

In this rough field of earthly life I have 
reaped cause for tears enough, 

Yet, after all, I think I've gleaned my 
modicum of Laughing-Stuff. 



^dcn ^ap 



TO DIANE 



The ruddy poppies bend and bow, 

Diane I do you remember ? 
The sun you knew shines proudly now. 
The lake still lists the breeze's vow, 
Your towers are fairer for their stains. 
Each stone you smiled upon remains. 
Sing low — where is Diane ? 
Diane ! do you remember ? 

I come to find you through the years, 

Diane ! do you remember ? 
For none may rule my love's soft fears. 



The ladies now are not your peers, 
I seek you through your tarnished halls, 
Pale sorrow on my spirit falls, 
High, low — where is Diane ? 
Diane ! do you remember ? 

I crush the poppies where I tread, 

Diane ! do you remember ? 
Your flower of life, so bright, so red — 
She does not hear — Diane is dead. 
I pace the sunny bowers alone 
Where naught of her remains but stone. 

Sing low — where is Diane ? 
Diane does not remember. 



754 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



A WOMAN'S PRIDE 

I WILL not look for him, I will not hear 
My heart's loud beating, as I strain to see 
Across the rain forlorn and hopelessly, 
Nor, starting, think 't is he that draws so 

near. 
I will forget how tenderly and dear 
He might in coming hold his arms to me. 
For I will prove what woman's pride can 

be 
When faint love lingers in the darkness 

drear. 
I will not — ah, but should he come to- 
night 
I think my life might break through very 

bliss, 
This little will should so be torn apart . 
That all my soul might fail in golden light 
And let me die; so do I long for this. 
Ah, love, thine eyes ! — Nay, love — Thy 
heart, thy heart I 

LOVE'S KISS 

Kiss me but once, and in that space 

supreme 
My whole dark life shall quiver to an end. 
Sweet Death shall see my heart and com- 
prehend 
That life is crowned, and in an endless 

gleam 
Will fix the color of the dying stream, 
That Life and Death may meet as friend 

with friend 
An endless immortality to blend; 
Kiss me but once, and so shall end my 

dream. 
And then Love heard me and bestowed his 

kiss, 
And straight I cried to Death: I will not 

die! 
Earth is so fair when one remembers this; 
Life is but just begun ! Ah, come not 

yet! 
The very world smiles up to kiss the sky, 
And in the grave one may forget — forget. 



WAS THERE ANOTHER SPRING 

Was there another Spring than this ? 
I half remember, through the haze 
Of glimmering nights and golden days, 
A broken-pinioned birdling's note, 



An angry sky, a sea-wrecked boat, 
A wandering through rain-beaten ways ! 
Lean closer, love — I have thy kiss ! 
Was there another Spring than this ? 



DOES THE PEARL KNOW? 

Does the pearl know, that in its shade and 

sheen. 
The dreamy rose and tender wavering 
green. 
Are hid the hearts of all the ranging seas, 
That Beauty weeps for gifts as fair as 
these ? 
Does it desire aught else when its rare 

blush 
Reflects Aurora in the morning's hush, 
Encircling all perfection can bestow, 
Does the pearl know ? 

Does the bird know, when, through the 

waking dawn, 
He soaring sees below the silvered lawn. 
And weary men who wait to watch the 

day 
Steal o'er the heights where he may 
wheel and stray ? 
Can he conceive his fee divine to share, 
As a free, joyous peer with sun and air, 
And pity the sad things that creep below, 
Does the bird know ? 

Does the heart know, when, filled to utter 

brim, 
The least quick throb, a sacrificial hymn 
To a great god who scorns the frown of 

Jove, 
That here it finds the awful power of 
love ? 
Think you the new-born babe in first wise 

sleep 
Fathoms the gift the heavens have bade 
him keep ? 
Yet if this be — if all these things are 
so — 

Does the heart know ? 



SIGH NOT FOR LOVE 

Sigh not for love, — the ways of love are 
dark ! 
Sweet Child, hold up the hollow of your 
hand 



HELEN HAY — G. S. HELLMAN — BEATRIX LLOYD 



7SS 



And catch the sparks that flutter from 

the stars ! 
See how the late sky spreads in flushing 
bars ! 
They are dead roses from your own dear 
land, 
Tossed high by kindly breezes; lean, and 

hark, 
And you shall know how Morning glads 
her lark ! 



The timid Dawn, herself a little 
child, 
Casts up shy eyes in loving worship, 

dear, 
Is it not yet enough ? The Spring is 
here, 
And would you weep for winter's tempest 
wild ? 
Sigh not for love, — the ways of love are 
dark ! 



4BtotQt ^^itinep ^^cHman^ 



COLERIDGE 

Thine is the mystic melody, 

The far-off murmur of some dreamland sea 

Lifting throughout the night, 

Up to the moon's mild light. 

Waves silver-lustrous, silvery-white, 

That beat in rhythm on the shadowy shore, 

And burst iu music, and are seen no more. 

THE HUDSON 

Where in its old historic splendor stands 
The home of England's far-famed Par- 
liament, 
And waters of the Thames in calm content 



At England's fame flow slowly o'er their 

sands ; 
And where the Rhine past vine-entwined 

lands 
Courses in castled beauty, there I went; 
And far to Southern rivers, flower-besprent; 
And to the icy streams of Northern strands. 
Then mine own native shores I trod once 

more, 
And, gazing on thy waters' majesty. 
The memory, O Hudson, came to me 
Of one who went to seek the wide world 

o'er 
For Love, but found it not. Then home 

turned he 
And saw his mother waiting at the door. 



25eatrtjc SDemare^sft iLlopti 



LOVE AND TIME 

Across the gardens of Life they go, 

A strange, ill-mated pair; 

By paths where naught but blossoms blow. 

By paths neglected where gaunt weeds 

grow. 
But hand in hand, through joy, through care, 
Across the gardens of Life they go. 

The one is old, and grim, and gray: 
His eyes stare off, like one in dreams; 
Across his breast his white locks stray; 
The sands in his glass fall day by day; 
Over his shoulder his scythe-blade gleams, — 
And he is old, and grim, and gray. 

And one is young, and bright, and fair: 
The golden curls about his head 

1 See, alao, 



Shine as a halo; his red lips dare 
The birds in song; he knows no care, 
Joy in his heart is never dead, — 
He lives to love and he is fair. 

Hoar-headed Time was never young, 
And Love on earth cannot grow old; 
And yet, since first to that hand he clung — 
Since first his tender song he sung. 
Since first his love-tale had he told. 
And to a dart his bow had strung — 

Together, through ways of joy, of woe, 
Though one is old and one is fair. 
By paths where naught but blossoms blow, 
By paths neglected where gaunt weeds 

grow. 
Together, a strange, ill-mated pair. 
Across the gardens of Life they go. 
p. 768". 



7S6 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



WITH ROSES 

In each green leaf a memory let lie: 
The pain that follows on the heels of bliss 
In every thorn; each waft of incense be a 

sigh 
For love: each petal of each rose a kiss ! 

NIGHT-WIND 

Like some great pearl from out the Orient, 
Upheld by unseen hands, — in its rich 

weight 
An offering to adorn a queen's proud state 
That some dependent princeling did pre- 
sent, — 



The moon slow rises into night's dark 

tent. 
The pulseless air, with longings vague be- 

freight. 
Now quickens 'neath her gaze, now doth 

inflate 
The still-poised midnight clouds in heaven 

pent. 
With jealous haste he draws them o'er her 

face, 
And by his right forbids all other eyes 
To note her beauty and to praise her 

grace ; 
Then up on lover's wings to her he flies 
Impatient for the joy of her embrace ; 
And to the earth are wafted down his sighs. 



aDtiitional ^electionjs 

(from the balladry, lyrics, sonnets, and lighter verse of the final 

decade) 



THE FLAG GOES BY 

Hats off ! 

Along the street there comes 

A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, 

A flash of color beneath the sky: 

Hats off ! 

The flag is passing by ! 

Blue and crimson and white it shines, 

Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines. 

Hats off ! 

The colors before us fly; 

But more than the flag is passing by. 

Sea-fights and land-flghts, grim and great, 
Fought to make and to save the State: 
Weary marches and sinking ships; 
Cheers of victory on dying lips; 

Days of plenty and years of peace; 
March of a strong land's swift increase; 
Equal justice, right and law, 
Stately honor and reverend awe; 

Sign of a nation, great and strong 
To ward her people from foreign wrong: 
Pride and glory and honor, — all 
Live in the colors to stand or fall. 



Hats off ! 

Along the street there comes 

A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums; 

And loyal hearts are beating high: 

Hats off ! 

The flag is passing by ! 

Henry Holcomb Bennett 



THE COASTERS 

Overloaded, undermanned. 

Trusting to a lee, 
Playing I-spy with the land, 

Jockeying the sea — 
That 's the way the Coaster goes, 

Through calm and hurricane : 
Everywhere the tide flows, 
Everywhere the wind blows. 

From Mexico to Maine. 

O East and West! O North and South ! 

We ply along the shore. 
From famous Fundy's foggy mouth, 

From voes of Labrador; 
Through pass and strait, on sound and sea, ''> 

From port to port we stand — 
The rocks of Race fade on our lee, 

We haU the Rio Grande. 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



757 



Our sails are never lost to sight; 


The watch of Fenwick sees our sail 


On every gulf and bay 


Scud for Henlopen's lee. 


They gleam, in winter wind-cloud white, 


With decks awash and canvas torn 


In summer rain-cloud gray. 


We wallow up the Stream; 




We drag dismasted, cargo borne. 


We hold the coast with slippery grip; 


And fright the ships of steam. 


We dare from cape to cape: 


Death grips us with his frosty hands 


Our leaden fingers feel the dip 


In calm and hurricane; 


And trace the channel's shape. 


We spill our bones on fifty sands 


We sail or bide as serves the tide; 


From Mexico to Maine. 


Inshore we cheat its flow. 




And side by side at anchor ride 


Cargo reef in main and fore, 


When stormy head-winds blow. 


Manned by half a crew, 


We are the oflPspring of the shoal, 


Romping up the weather shore, 


The hucksters of the sea; 


Edging down the Blue — 


From customs theft and pilot toll 


That 's the way the Coaster goes, 


Thank God that we are free. 


Scouting with the lead : 




Everywhere the tide flows. 


Legging on and off the beach, 


Everywhere the wind blows, 


Drifting up the strait, 


From Cruz to Quoddy Head. 


Fluking down the river reach. 


Thomas Fleming Day 


Towing through the gate — 




That 's the way the Coaster goes, 


OF THE LOST SHIP 


Flirting with the gale : 




Everywhere the tidefloivs. 


What has become of the good ship Kite ? 


Everywhere the wind blows. 


Where is her hull of chosen oak ? 


From York to Beavertail. 


Who were the Victors, what the Fight ? 




The old Wives — whom did they invoke, 




That should tell them so uncannily: 

" Fell through a crack in the Floor of the 


Here and there to get a load. 


Freighting anything ; 


Sea " f 


Running off with spanker stowed. 




Loafing wing-a-wing — 


"Trafficked with death in a cruise fore- 


That 's the way the Coaster goes, 


done," 


Chumming with the land : 


The Preachers drone to the Salem Folk, 


Everywhere the tidejiows. 


When the Sea has swallowed up the Sun 


Everywhere the wind blows. 


And the white gulls glint — was it they 


From Ray to Rio Grande. 


who spoke ? 




Wes'-Sou'-West from the Devil's Quay: 


We split the swell where rings the bell 




On many a shallow's edge, 


" Fell through a crack in the Floor of the 


We take our flight past many a light 


Sea " f 


That guards the deadly ledge; 




We greet Montauk across the foam. 


Of the old-time Band there 's not a man 


We work the Vineyard Sound, 


Who has ever told how the ship went 


The Diamond sees us running home, 


down. 


The Georges outward bound; 


Were they marked by God with the fear- 


Absecom hears our canvas beat 


some ban ? 


When tacked off Brigantine; 


Butchered they priests in a sun-white 


We raise the Gulls with lifted sheet, 


town? 


Pass wing-and-wing between. 


Do they harry Hell where they may be : 


Off Monomoy we fight the gale, 


"Fell through a crack in the Floor of the 


We drift off Sandy Key; 


Sea » f 



758 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



Though ye searched the West to the gutter- 
ing sun, 
Or the East till the baffled lights burn 
black, 
Or North to the bergs till the South be won, 

The changeling shadows answer back. 
And their trembling lips pale piteously: 

" Fell through a crack in the Floor of the 
Sea " ? 

And when the great grim Finger becks 
The whining Seas from their ancient bed. 

Shall some tongue speak from the world- 
old wrecks 
To read the log of the Thwarted Dead ? 

Is there never an end on the mystery: 

"Fell through a crack in the Floor of the 
Sea " ? 

Eugene Richard White 

CAMILLA 

Now Camilla's fair fingers are plucking 
in rapture the pulsating strings, 

And her far-away eyes are intent on the 
scene and the story she sings — 

Singing her song of Felipe, her hero in- 
trepid and true; 

Singing his praise, and recounting what 
deeds for her love he would do. 

See the wild race after cattle, the broncho's 
wide nostrils blood red; 

Hear the hello of the herder, Felipe, who 
dashes ahead ! 

Hist, how the lariat sings as it flies o'er the 
horns of a steer ! 

See the wild plunge, and the horse stand- 
ing firm — hear the bellow of fear ! 

Then on the trail of Apaches, who leads 

the long marches by night ? 
Who but Felipe would dare to press on o'er 

the mesa to fight ? 
Who but Felipe sits firm in his saddle when 

rifles ring out in the dark ? 
Coolly he levels his weapon, the bullet flies 

true to its mark. 

Such is the song sweet Camilla is singing 

with gaze far-away — 
Such is the song, for she knows not how 

long her Felipe will stay — 



Knows not that lone in the waste of the 
sage-brush her master lies, slain — 

Ah, sweet Camilla, thy songs for Felipe, 
the fearless, are vain ! 

Charles Augustus Keeler 

THE SONG OF THE SONS OF 
ESAU 

Ye smooth-faced sons of Jacob, hug close 

your ingleside; 
Guard well the market in its wealth, the 

palace in its pride ! 
Oh, blithe it is to wander, and the world is 

wide I 

Hard straining at their cables, the captive 

vessels ride: 
Haul up the prisoning anchor, swing out 

upon the tide ! 
Oh, grandly fills the canvas, and the sea is 

tvide ! 

Mysterious spreads the forest, where 
strange, shy creatures bide: 

Within its dim remoteness, who knows 
what wonders hide ? 
Oh, softly step the wild things, and the jun- 
gle 's wide ! 

Across the stretching desert the tireless 
camels stride. 

The scorching sun above them, the scorch- 
ing sands beside. 
Oh, steady swing the camels, and the plain 
is wide ! 

Through leagues on leagues of ice-fields, 
the time-old glaciers slide 

Across the drifted valley, from drifted 
mountain-side. 
Oh, keenly stings the Northwind, and the 
snow is wide ! 

It is our weird to wander, whatever fate 

betide ; 
We seek the vast far places, nor trail nor 

chart to guide. 
The restlessness i,s on us, and the world is 

wide 1 

O canny sons of Jacob, to fret and toiling 

tied. 
We grudge you not the birthright for which 

your father lied ! 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



759 



We own the right of roaming, and the world 
is wide ! 

For you the pomp and power, prosperity 
and pride: 



For us the happy wilderness, and not a 
care to chide. 
2'o give us room to wander was the world 
made wide ! 

Bertha Brooks Runkle 



THE UNBORN 

Thou art my very own, 

A part of me, 

Bone of my bone 

And flesh of my flesh. 

And thou shalt be 

Heart of my heart 

And brain of brain — 

In years that are to come to me and thee. 

Before thou wast a being, made 

Of spirit, as of flesh, 

Thou didst sleep beneath the beats 

Of my tumultuous heart, and drink, 

With little aimless lips 

And blind, unseeing eyes, 

Frona every bursting vein 

Replete with life's abundant flood. 

Ay ! even of my very breath. 

And from my blood 

Thou didst imbibe the fresh 

And glorious air, that holds the sweets 

Of nature's sure and slow eclipse; 

That ceaseless round of life and death 

Which are the close entwined braid 

Of all the seasons' subtle mesh 

And endless chain. 

In a soft and silken chamber set apart — 

Here, just beneath my happy heart, — 

Thou didst lie at dreamy ease 

While all my being paid 

Its tribute unto thee. 

What happy hours for thee and me ! 

As when a bird 

Broods on its downy nest — 

So would I sit 



II 



And watch the flit 

Of idle shadows to and fro. 

And brood upon my treasure hid 

Within my willing flesh. 

And when there stirred 

A little limb — a tiny hand ! — 

What rapturous thrills of ecstasy 

Shook all my being to its inmost citadel ! 

Ah ! none but she who has borne 

A child beneath her breast may know 

What wondrous thrill and subtle spell 

Comes from this wondrous woven band 

That binds a mother to her unborn child 

Within her womb. 

As in the earth — 

That fragrant tomb 

Of all that lives, or man or beast — 

Soft blossoms bud and bloom and swell, 

So didst thou from my body gain 

Sweet sustenance and royal feast. 

Then through the gates of priceless pain 

Thou camest to me — fair, so fair. 

And so complete 

From rose-tipped feet 

To silken hair ! 

And there beneath each pearly lid, 

There glowed a jewel — passing rare ! 

It moves and breathes ! It slakes its thirst 

At my all-abundant breast ! 

Oh, moment born of life — of love ! 

Oh, rapture of all earth's high, high above ! 

Three lives in one — 

By loving won ! 

My own — and thine — 

Oh, bond divine ! 

Our little child ! Our little child ! 

Julia Neely Finch 



III 



DEEP WATERS 

Death could not come between us two: 
What fear of death could be, 



If thou, its shadow passing through. 
But turned and looked at me ? 

Nor yet could pain the vision dim 
With misty blur of tears; 



760 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



The cup now clouded to the brim, 
For him who drinketh, clears. 

Deep waters could not quench the light, 

The tender light that lies, 
Like splendor of the Northern night, 

In thy unquestioning eyes. 
Though wide the wild, unfurrowed sea. 

Though high the skylark sings, 
My love should build a bridge to thee, 

My heart should find its wings. 

I could not miss thee in the throng. 

Nor pass thy dwelling-place. 
No noise of war could drown thy song. 

Nor darkness veil thy face. 
With thee to mount from earth to sky, 

With thee in dust to sleep, 
What height for love could be too high. 

Or depth for love too deep ? 

Van Tassel Sutphen 



MORITURA 

I AM the mown grass, dying at your feet. 
The pale grass, gasping faintly in the sun. 
I shall be dead, long, long ere day is done. 

That you may say : " The air, to-day, was 
sweet." 

I am the mown grass, dying at your feet. 

I am the white syringa, falling now, 
When some one shakes the bough. 

What matter if I lose my life's brief 
noon ? 

You laugh, " A snow in June ! " 
I am the white syringa, falling now. 

I am the waning lamp that flickers on, — 
Trying to give my old, unclouded light 
Among the rest that make your garden 
bright. 

Let me still burn till all my oil is gone. 

I am the waning lamp that flickers on. 

I am your singer, singing my last note. 
Death's fingers clutch my throat. 

New grass will grow, new flowers bloom 

and fall; 
New lamps blaze out against your garden 
wall: 
I am your singer, singing my last note. 

Margaret Gilman (George) Davidson 



THE LONG NIGHT 

Who will watch thee, little mound, 

When a few more years are done, 

And I go with them to rest 

In the silence that is best ? 

Grave of my beloved one. 

When that I mine own have found, 

Who will watch thee, little mound ? 

Who will love thee, little grave ? 
Thou must be as others are. 
Hearts low in the dust lie here, 
Unloved, alone, unwept, and drear, 
Forgotten as a fallen star. 
Only from some dark sobbing wave 
The clouds shall bring their tears to 

lave 
Thy withered lilies, little grave. 

Airs that hover over thee. 

Little mound, are strangely sweet; 
Strangely sweet the odors shed 
By the blossoms round thy bed, — 
Blossoms for a maiden meet; 
But, alas ! how will it be 
When I lie at rest by thee ? 

After years that are a day 

In the swiftness of their flight. 
None among us will there be 
Who will live remembering thee 
And thy beauty. Into night 
We who mourn must take our way 
When the twilight cometh gray, 
After years that are a day. 

Silent cities of the dead 

Grow as old as hearts of men; 
Flowers sanctified, that bloom 
In the sunshine on a tomb, 
Have their little day, and then. 
All their grace and glory fled. 
They are dead amid the dead. 

Ah, God ! how miserably lost 

The loveliest must be; for naught 
After a little space there lives 
(Save the poor words the grave-stone 
gives 
To heedless eyes and careless thought) 
Of pure and blest or passion-tost: 
A few brief hours of bloom and frost, 
And where are those who loved the lost ? 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



761 



Even our sorrows, seeming long, 

Must pass, as grains of sand must fall 
Beneath the infinite calm sea 
Of ages and eternity. 
We are faint shadows on a wall; 
We look our last on love and wrong, 
Then fade as doth a silenced song. 

Harry Bache Smith 1 

WHITE ROSES'^ 

There was a rose-tree grew so high 

And white with all its seven roses. 

It seemed a cloud 'twixt earth and sky. 

There was one rose among the seven 

That grew alone on topmost bough. 

Like a white star caught down from heaven. 

I plucked it that it should not be 
Deflowered by rainy, wild west winds 
In all its white virginity. 



There was a little maiden dead 
In a dark room in a lone place — 
Two candles at her feet and head. 

Her two hands crossed upon her breast, 
Like frail rose petals, but more still — 
Glad to be folded thus at rest. 

Her pale lips smiling all the while, 
In such a solemn, perfect peace, 
Alas, as our lips never smile. 

I gave my white rose to the dead — 

It seemed less white than her young 

brow: 
The others wept — " Alas ! " they said. 

I gave my white rose to the child, 
Both plucked in their young purity, 
And while the others wept I smiled. 

Cora Fabbri 



IV 



STEVENSON'S BIRTHDAY 

"How I should like a birthday ! " said the 
child, 
" I have so few, and they so far apart." 
She spoke to Stevenson — the Master 
smiled — 
"Mine is to-day; I would with all my 
heart 
That it were yours ; too many years have I ! 
Too swift they come, and all too swiftly 

fly." 

So by a formal deed he there conveyed 
All right and title in his natal day, 
To have and hold, to sell or give 
away, — 

Then signed, and gave it to the little maid. 

Joyful, yet fearing to believe too much, 
She took the deed, but scarcely dared 
unfold. 
Ah, liberal Genius ! at whose potent touch 
All common things shine with trans- 
muted gold ! 
A day of Stevenson's will prove to be 
Not part of Time, but Immortality. 

Katherine Miller 



SONNETS 

ON THE DEATH OF A METAPHYSICIAN 

Unhappy dreamer, who outwinged in flight 
The pleasant region of the things I love. 
And soared beyond the sunshine, and above 
The golden cornfields and the dear and 

bright 
Warmth of the hearth, — blasphemer of 

delight, 
Was your proud bosom not at peace with 

Jove, 
That you sought, thankless for his guarded 

grove, 
The empty horror of abysmal night ? 
Ah, the thin air is cold above the moon ! 
I stood and saw you fall, befooled in death. 
As, in your numbed spirit's fatal swoon. 
Yon cried you were a god, or were to be ; 
I heard with feeble moan your boastful 

breath 
Bubble from depths of the Icarian sea. 

ON A PIECE OF TAPESTRY 

Hold high the woof, dear friends, that we 

may see 
The cunning mixture of its colors rare. 



1 See also, p. 679. 



» Copyright, 1892, by Haepbe & Beotbebs. 



762 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



Nothing in nature purposely is fair, — 
Her mingled beauties never quite agree; 
But here all vivid dyes that garish be, 
To that tint mellowed which the sense will 

bear, 
Glow, and not wound the eye that, resting 

there, 
Lingers to feed its gentle ecstasy. 
Crimson and purple and all hues of wine. 
Saffron and russet, brown and sober green 
Are rich the shadowy depths of blue be- 
tween ; 
While silver threads with golden intertwine. 
To catch the glimmer of a fickle sheen, — 
All the long labor of some captive queen. 
George Santayana 



THE ARTIST 

He wrought with patience long and weary 

years 
Upon his masterpiece, entitled " Fate," 
And dreamed sweet dreams, the while his 

crust he ate, 
And gave his work his soul, his strength, 

and tears. 
His task complete at last, he had no fears 
The world would not pronounce his genius 

great. 
But poor, unknown — pray, what could he 

create ? 
The mad world laughed, and gave not 

praise, but jeers. 
Impelled to ask wherein his work was wrong, 
He sought, despairing, one whose art was 

dead, 
But on whose brow were wreathed the bays 

of Fame: 
The master gazed upon the picture long; 
" It lacks one thing to make it great," he 

said. 
And signed the canvas with his own great 

name ! 

Arthur Grissom 



THE MOUNTAIN TO THE PINE 

Thou tall, majestic monarch of the wood, 
That standeth where no wild vines dare to 

creep. 
Men call thee old, and say that thou hast 

stood 
A century upon my rugged steep; 



Yet unto me thy life is but a day, 

When I recall the things that I have 

seen, — 
The forest monarchs that have passed 

away 
Upon the spot where first I saw thy green; 
For I am older than the age of man. 
Or all the living things that crawl or 

creep, 
Or birds of air, or creatures of the deep; 
I was the first dim outline of God's plan: 
Only the waters of the restless sea 
And the infinite stars in heaven are old to 

me. 

Clarence Hawkes 



EXPERIENCE 



Like Crusoe with the bootless gold we 

stand 
Upon the desert verge of death, and say: 
" What' shall avail the woes of yesterday 
To buy to-morrow's wisdom, in the land 
Whose currency is strange unto our hand ? 
In life's small market they had served to 

pay 

Some late - found rapture, could we but 

delay 
Till Time hath matched our means to our 

demand." 
But otherwise Fate wills -it, for, behold, 
Our gathered strength of individual pain. 
When Time's long alchemy hath made it 

gold. 
Dies with us — hoarded all these years in 

vain. 
Since those that might be heir to it the 

mould 
Renew, and coin themselves new griefs 

again. 

II 

O Death, we come full-handed to thy gate, 
Rich with strange burden of the mingled 

years. 
Gains and renunciations, mirth and tears, 
And love's oblivion, and remembering hate. 
Nor know we what compulsion laid such 

freight 
Upon our souls — and shall our hopes and 

fears 
Buy nothing of thee, Death ? Behold our 

wares, 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



763 



And sell us the one joy for which we wait. 
Had we lived longer, life had such for 

sale, 
With the last coin of sorrow purchased 

cheap. 
But now we stand before thy shadowy pale, 



And all our longings lie within thy keep — 
Death, can it be the years shall naught 
avail ? 

"Not so," Death answered, "they shall 
purchase sleep." Edith Wharton 



INTAGLIOS 

TENNESSEE 

In Tennessee, the dogwood tree 
Blossoms to-night: towards the sea 
The Cumberland makes melody, 
In Tennessee. 

And Morgan mounts his steed once more; 
In phantom file his troopers pour 
Along; the stars hear once again 
The song of Morgan and his men. 

In Tennessee, the slave is free 
To-night; but waking he can see 
The raiders — hears them — tremblingly, 
In Tennessee. 



ON THE PLAINS 

CiRCLES'G on high, in cloudless sky, 
The shadowed hawk with passioned eye 
In widening orbits floats, a spy, 
Circling on high. 

He marks the gopher's clean-picked bones. 

Whitening upon the hot dry stones 

Of the dust-choked gulch, and strikes 

straightway, 
In fancy strikes, the hastening prey. 

But all is still — noon hath her will; 
Not e'en a snake crawls on the hill ; 
Only the hawk moves, fain to kill, 
Circling on high. 

Francis Brooks 



QUATRAINS 



A DIAMOND 



Look how it sparkles, see it greet 
With laughing light the ambient air; 

One little drop of sunshine sweet 
Held in eternal bondage there. 



SPRING 

A WHISPER on the heath I hear. 

And blossoms deck the waking wood ; 

Ah ! surely now the virgin year 
Is in her blushing maidenhood. 

MARCH 

Whither doth now this fellow flee 

With outstretched arms at such mad 
pace ? 

Can the young rascal thinking be 
To catch a glimpse of April's face ? 



Maiden, thy cheeks with tears are wet, 
And ruefully thine eyebrows arch; 

Is 't as they say, thou thinkest yet 
Of that inconstant madcap March ? 

A SUNSET 

The Sun, departing, kissed the summer 
Sky, 
Then bent an instant o'er her beating 
breast ; 
She lifts to him a timid, tear-stained eye. 
And, lo ! her blushes crimson all the 
west. Robert Loveman 



764 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



VI 



THE RECRUIT 

Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFad- 
den: 
" Bedad, yer a bad 'un ! 
Now turn out yer toes ! 
Yer belt is unhookit, 
Yer cap is on crookit, 
Ye may not be dhrunk, 
But, be jabets, ye look it ! 
Wan — two ! 
Wan — two ! 
Ye monkey-faced divil, I'll jolly ye 
through ! 

Wan — two ! — 
Time ! Mark ! 
Ye march like the aigle in Cintheral 
Parrk ! " 

Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFad- 
den: 
" A saint it ud sadden 
To dhrill such a mug ! 
Eyes front ! — ye baboon, ye ! — 
Chin up ! — ye gossoon, ye ! 
Ye 've jaws like a goat — 
Halt ! ye leather-lipped loon, ye ! 
Wan — two ! 
Wan — two ! 
Ye whiskered orang-outang, I '11 fix you ! 
Wan — two ! — 
Time ! Mark ! 
Ye 've eyes like a bat ! — can ye see in the 
dark ? " 

Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFad- 
den: 
" Yer figger wants padd'n' — 
Sure, man, ye 've no shape ! 
Behind ye yer shoulders 
Stick out like two bowlders; 
Yer shins is as thin 
As a pair of pen-holders ! 
Wan — two ! 
Wan — two ! 
Yer belly belongs on yer back, ye Jew t 
Wan — two I — 
Time ! Mark ! 
I 'm dhry as a dog — I can't sbpake bnt I 
bark f " 

Sez Corporal Madden to Private MeFad- 
den: 



" Me heart it ud gladden 
To blacken yer eye. 
Ye 're gettin' too bold, ye 
Compel me to scold ye, — 
'T is halt ! that I say, — 
Will ye heed what I told ye ? 
Wan — two ! 
Wan — two ! 
Be jabers, I 'm dhryer than Brian Boru ! 
Wan — two ! — 
Time ! Mark ! 
What's wur-ruk for chickens is sport for 
the lark ! " 

Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFad- 
den: 
" I '11 not stay a gadd'n 
Wid dagoes like you ! 
I '11 travel no farther, 
I 'm dyiii' for — wather; — 
Come on, if ye like, — 
Can ye loan me a quather ? 
Ya-as, you. 
What, — two ? 
And ye '11 pay the potheen ? Ye 're a 
daisy ! Whurroo ! 
You '11 do ! 
Whist ! Mark ! 
The Rigiment 's flatthered to own ye, me 
spark ! " 

Robert William Chambers 



THE LITTLE NIPPER AN' 'IS MA 

" Yer know me little nipper," 
Said 'Enery 'Awkins, M. P. 
" Well, 'e 's a little champion. 
An' tikes on arfter me. 
Larst Sunday me an' the missus 
Went out f er a little walk — 
I should say the nipper took us, , 
Yer should o' 'eard 'im tork ! 

" We went along throngh Tyburn, 
An' then by 'Endon way, 
Were I ust ter do me conrtin' 
In those sweet nights o' May. 
We 'd been walkin' out an 'our, 
W'en Sal she sez ter me, 
' 'Ere, 'Arry, is yer gime, dear, 
Fer shrimps an' a cup o' tea.' 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



765 



" ' Gam,' sez I ter Sally, 


" An' w'en I gives me order, 


* I 'm in f er 'arf an 'arf .' 


I turns ter speak ter Sal, 


Lor lumme, yer should jist 0' 'eard 


Ter arsk if she remembered 


My little Sally larf ! 


The day she was me gal. 


' 0' course,' she sez, ' I likes me nip 


I felt some one a-tuggin' 


O' gin an' glarss 0' beer, 


An' pullin' at me back; 


But did not like ter say it out 


I looks around surprised-like, 


Before the nipper 'ere.' 


An' sees that rascal Jack. 


" The nipper 'e war n't lookin' 


" Sez I, ' See 'ere, me nipper, 


As we neared the Brokers' Arms; 


I wont 'ave yer 'angin' 'ere.' 


An' in we 'ops ter get a wet, 


Sez 'e, ' D' yer think I 'm goin' ? 


Not dreamin' any 'arm. 


Not me. No bally fear. 


But the nipper 'e were cagy, 


Now, then, wot 'ave yer ordered ? 


An' followed in the rear. 


Sez I, ' Two 'arf an' 'arf.' 


An' 'ears me give me order: 


Sez 'e, ' Ain't mother in it ? ' 


* 'Ere, miss, two pots 0' beer.' 


An' yer should 0' 'eard 'im larf." 




George Fauvel Gouraud 



VII 



SOME RECENT COLLEGE VERSE 



d'artagnan's ride 

Fifty leagues, fifty leagues — and I ride, 

and I ride — 
Fifty leagues as the black crow flies. 
None of the three are by my side . . . 
The bay horse reels, and the bay horse 

dies — 
But I ride, and I ride 
To Callice. 

We were four, we were four — and I ride, 

and I ride — 
We were iouv, but Porthos lies 
God knows where by the highway side . . . 
The roan horse reels, and the roan horse 

dies — 
But I ride, and I ride 
To Callice. 

We were three, we were three — and I 

ride, and I ride — 
We were three, but Aramis lies 
Bludgeoned and bound and thrown 

aside . . . 
The dun horse reels, and the dun horse 

dies — 
But I ride, and I ride 
To Callice. 



We were two, we were two — and I ride, 

and I ride — 
We were two, but Athos lies 
With a lead-crushed rib and a steel-torn 

side . . . 
The black horse reels, and the black horse 

dies — 
But I ride, and I ride 
To Callice. 

All alone, all alone — and I ride, and I 

ride — 
All alone, and an ambush lies 
God knows where by the highway side . . . 
The gray horse reels, and the gray horse 

dies — 
But I ride, and I ride 
To Callice, 
Yes — I ride and I ride and I ride and I 

ride 
And I ride and I ride 
To Callice. 

GOUVERNEUR MORRIS 

II 

TO A MOTH 
CRUSHED WITHIN THE LEAVES OF AN ILIAD 

Poor Creature ! nay, I '11 not say poor. 
Why, surely, thou art wondrous blest; 
Right royal is this sepulchre 
Fate gave thee for thy last long rest. 



766 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



See here — 't is but two lines above 
The spot that marks thy early tomb — 
Here Paris breathes his burning love 
To her who compassed Ilia's doom. 

And here, upon a neighboring page, 
The great Achilles moans his friend, 
All careless, in his kingly rage, 
Of bane or curse the gods may send. 

Above, below thee, everywhere, 
Fierce Trojan strives with wily Greek; 
And mighty lords, with tawny hair, 
Deep words of war and wisdom speak. 

The high gods gaze upon thee here, 
Great warriors guard thy resting-place — 
Perchance thou see'st a burning tear 
Steal down Briseis' home-turned face. 

Ay ! rest content, for thou hast won 
A tomb that kings might wish in vain ; 
About thee shines the all-seeing sun. 
And roars the many-sounding main. 

Charles Edward Thomas 

METHINKS THE MEASURE 

Methinks the measure of a man is not 
To save a state in midst of fierce alarms. 
Do noble deeds and mighty feats of arms. 
And feel the breath of battle waxing hot. 
There have been Csesars whose more hum- 
ble lot 
Forbade that they should bear the victor's 

palms ; 
Crom wells who never left their peaceful 

farms; 
Napoleons without ambition's blot. 
Not in the deed that 's done before the eyes 
Of wonder-stricken lands upturned to view. 
But in the will, though no occasion rise, 
And sleeping still, that dares such deeds to 

do, 
Is drawn the line which parts him from the 

clods 
And gives a man a kinship with the gods. 
Percy Adams Hutchison 

HELIOS 

Oh, I am weary of a heart that brings 
Star-worship even to the shining sun : 
Rather a savage whose whole heart hath 



Radiance and joy from sunlight than whose 

wings 
Flutter and fade before the twilight rings: 
Why should we falter when the night is 

done, — 
Dream-weavers, trembling in dim mists 

that stun 
All things divorced from thought, and 

thought from things ? 
I am thy child, O Sun, as Julian was : 
I crouch not in the shadows of my soul. 
And grapple with dark terrors; nor, re won. 
Drink I of darkness when the shadows pass: 
Even at death, when nearest is the goal, 
I shall cry out to heaven, " The sun ! the 

sun ! " 

Joel Elias Spingarn 

DARKNESS 

Oft have I stood upon the foaming strand 
Watching the moonlight tremble on the sea; 
Oft have I seen the stars fade silently 
When gleaming dawn drove night across 

the land; 
Oft have I watched the storm lift o'er the 

sand 
The ocean in his might and majesty; 
Now are these joys a mockery to me 
Since on mine eyes, God, Thou hast laid, 

Thine Hand. 
Have I too much exulted in the light. 
Forgetting Thee from whom these glories 

rise. 
That Thou hast struck me with this darkr 

ling blight. 
Robbed me of day and of the sunny 

skies. 
Transforming them into continuous night, — 
Is it for this that Thou hast shut mine 

eyes ? 

James Naumberg Rosenberg 

WHITHER 

Agnes, thou child of harmony, now fled 
From scenes once bright-illumined with 

thy smile. 
So innocent and kind, free from the guile 
Of Orient charm, mysterious and dread, — 
Where shall I seek thee, maid ? Thou art 

not dead. 
No, Nature's heart would break, count all 

else vile, 
Bereft of thee e'en for a little while. 



RECENT COLLEGE VERSE 



767 



Where art thou, then ? Hast to the violet 

sped 
That with its gentle blue bespeaks thine 

eye? 
To rippling stream, the echo of thy voice ? 
To wooing wind that, kissing, says ' Re- 



joice 



Or to the rosebush with its fainting sigh, 
' Ah ! too lovely for a season long ! ' — 
Or, art thou on fair angel lips a song ? 

Philip Becker Goetz 

ATTAINMENT 

Through my open window comes the 

sweet perfuming 
Of roses reddening under skies of June ; 
No sight more fair than roses in red 

bloom, 
No air more sweet than doth the rose 
perfume ; 
And yet was never there a rose but died in 
blooming. 

Algernon Tassin 

god's will 

I KNOW, I know where violets blow 

Upon a sweet hillside. 
And very bashfully they grow 

And in the grasses hide — 
It is the fairest field, I trow. 

In the whole world wide. 

One spring I saw two lassies go, 
Brown cheek and laughing eye ; 

They swung their aprons to and fro, 
They filled them very higli 

With violets — then whispered low 
So strange, I wondered why. 

I know where violet tendrils creep 
And crumbled tombstones lie, 

The green churchyard is silence-deep; 
The village folk go by, 

And lassies laugh and women weep, 
And God knows why. 

Robert Louis Munger 

III 

CAMEOS 



A valentine 

The wise forget, dear heart; 
They leave the past 



And play the hero's part, 
Brave to the last. 

They weep not nor regret. 
Calm are their eyes. 

Dear heart, the wise forget. 
I am not wise ! 



forgiven ? 

I SAW Love stand, 

Not as he was ere we in conflict met, 
But pale and wan. I knelt — I'caught his 

hand — 
" O Love," I cried, " I did not understand ! 

Forgive — forget ! " 

Love raised his head 

And smiled at me, with weary eyes and 
worn. 
"I have forgot — what was it all ? " he 

said; 
" Only — my hands are scarred where they 
have bled ; 
My wings are torn." 

Jeannette Bliss Gillespy 

THE SONG 

A SONG lay silent in my pen 

Where yesterday I found it, 
Right cozy in its gloomy den. 

With a melody wrapped round it. 
Through all the years 't was waiting so, 

To hear the summons of that minute; 
I thought I loved the pen; but no ! 

It was the song within it ! 

To-day my lady sang to me 

My song in sweetest fashion: 
Unwrapped it from the melody 

In the radiance of its passion. 
As one might see a blossom grow. 

Yet never see the sun above it, 
I thought I loved the song; but no ! 

It was hei* singing of it ! 

John Erskine 

IV 

ALPHEUS AND ARETHUSA 

(new Doric) 

A NYMPH there was in Arcadie 
Who owned a crystal spring; 



768 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



And there she 'cl wash, sans mackintosh, 
B'gosh, or anything. 

A youth there was in Arcadie 

Who hunted o'er the brooks; 
He would not tote an overcoat, 

But travelled on his looks. 

Though ancient Greece had no police, 
The gods did as they 'd oughter; 

To put them quite from mortal sight 
They turned them into water ! 

Eugene Howell Daly 

ON A MAGAZINE SONNET 

" Scorn not the sonnet," though its strength 
be sapped. 
Nor say malignant its inventor blun- 
dered; 
The corpse that here in fourteen lines is 
wrapped 
Had otherwise been covered with a hun- 
dred. 

Russell Hillard Loines 

A CREW POEM 

So happy were Columbia's eight. 
As near the goal they drew. 

Each struggling hero all elate. 
The cock-swain almost crew. 

Edward Augustus Blount, Jr. 

IN A CHINA SHOP ' ' 

A Dresden shepherdess was one day 

Milking a small Delft cow. 

When a Sevres Marquis came along — 

I saw him smile and bow: 

" O lovely shepherdess, hear my song," 

I think I heard him say, 

" For thou hast captured my porcelain 

heart, 
And by my sword I swear thou art 
A star in the Milky Way." 

George Sidney Hellman i 

CLASSICAL CRITICISM 
2T B. c. 

Old Horace on a summer afternoon. 

Well primed with sweet Falernian, let us 
say, 

1 See, also 



Lulled by the far-off brooklet's drowsy 

croon 
To a half-doze in a haphazard way. 
Scratched off a half a dozen careless 

rhymes, 
As was his habit. When next day he 

came 
Awake to work, he read them several 

times. 
In vain attempt to catch their sense and 

aim. 
" What was I thinking of ? Blest if I 

know, 
Jupiter ! What 's the difference ? Let 

them go ! " 

1 886 A. D. 

" Lines twelve to twenty are in great dis- 
pute," 
(Most learnedly the lecturer doth speak,) 
" I think I shall be able to refute 

Orelli's claim they 're taken from the 
Greek. 
I think, with Bentley, Horace's purpose 
here 
Is irony, and yet I do not know 
But Dillenberger's reading is more clear. 
For which he gives eight arguments, al- 
though 
Wilkins gives twelve objections to the 

same " — 
So on (ad infinitum). Such is fame ! 

George Lynde Richardson 



FOR SALE, A HORSE 

In good condition. 

Cheap, on account of competition, 

Well-broken, easy on his bridle, 

With curb or snaffle never idle. 

A very little child can ride him, 

And carry three or four beside him. 

Why plod when you can ride so cheaply ? 

There is no need to ponder deeply. 

I '11 warrant he '11 not bite nor kick you ; 

I 've not the slightest wish to stick you ! 

However short you are, you 're suited, 

For low-stand men can mount when 
booted. 

Come, buy my steed with manner gra- 
cious. 

He '11 aid your reading of Horatius. 

Charles Edward Taylor 

p. 755. 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



769 



PERSICOS ODI 

Boy, I detest these modern innovations, 
The Voice crusade may alter some men's 
habit, 
But, as for me, I '11 stick to my old ra- 
tions. 

Ale and a rarebit. 

In vino vis. The pious dames of Ipswich, 
Knowing its worth and fearing lest men 
waste it'. 
Condemn its use in christening battle-ships 
which 

Can't even taste it. 

Old Cato Major (and, no doubt, his wife, 
too) 



Found in Falernian, mixed with milder 
Massic, 
Courage which led him, at his time of life, to 
Read the Greek classic. 

Yes, Cato drank, nor should we lightly 
damn a 
Man who, at eighty and without coercion. 
Mastered Liddell and Scott, and Hadley's 
grammar, 

Aly pet aversion. 

Elihii's ways, they say, are growing sinful ; 
Crimes that are nameless are committed 
daily. 
Oscar ! my toby, and I '11 sin a skinful, 
So to bed gayly. 

Charles Edmund Merrill, Jr 



VIII 



MISS NANCY'S GOWN 



In days when George the Third was King 

And ruled the Old Dominion, 
And Law and Fashion owned the sway 

Of Parliament's opinion, 
A good ship brought across the sea 

A treasure fair and fine, — 
Miss Nancy's gown from London town, 

The latest Court design ! 

The plaited waist from neck to belt 

Scarce measured half a span ; 
The sleeves, balloon-like, at the top 

Could hold her feather fan; 
The narrow skirt with bias gore 

Revealed an ankle neat, 
Whene'er she put her dainty foot 

From carriage step to street ! 

By skilful hands this wondrous gown 

Of costliest stuff was made. 
Cocoons of France on Antwerp looms 

Wrought to embossed brocade, 
Where roses red and violets 

In blooming beauty grew. 
As if young May were there alway. 

And June and April too ! 

And from this bower of delight 
Miss Nancy reigned a Queen, 

Nor one disloyal heart rebelled 
In all her wide demesne: 



The noble House of Burgesses 

Forgot its fierce debate 
O'er rights of Crown, when Nancy's gown 

Appeared in Halls of State ! 

Through jocund reel, or measured tread 

Of stately minuet, 
Like fairy vision shone the bloom 

Of rose and violet, 
As, hand in hand with Washington, 

The hero of the day, 
The smiling face and nymph-like grace 
• Of Nancy led the way ! 

A century, since that gay time 

The merry dance was trod, 
Has passed, and Nancy long has slept 

Beneath the churchyard sod; 
Yet on the brocade velvet gown 

The rose and violet 
Are blooming bright as on the night 

She danced the minuet ! 

ZiTELLA Cocke 

THE JOURNEY 

Reluctantly I laid aside my smiles, 
Those little, pleasing knickknaeks of the 

' face, 
And dropped the words accustomed to my 

tongue, 
And took just half a breath in breathing's 
space ; 



770 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



And then I drew the curtains of my eyes 
And ceased to move, and rallied all my 

thought, 
Selecting all the verity that lies 
Through daily life, with false pretences 

fraught ; 
I sorted and arranged and packed my hope 
And my despair together, in my heart; 
I tied the strings and sealed the envelope 
In which ambition, stifled, used to smart; 
Took out my conscience — long since laid 

away — 
And shook it, folded it, with thoughts like 

tears ; 
Revised my errors, sorted out the years 
When doubt and egotism held their sway; 
All this I did the night I heard them say 
Beside the pillow, " She will die at 

dawn " — 
And then they wept and called me by my 

name: 
I would have liked to soothe them, but in 

vain — 



I had so very little time to stay, 

And so much packing to be done before 

I put my fires out and closed my door 

To catch the stage-coach which would pass 

that way 
At dawn, and bear me down eternity. 
I hurried — and grew weary and turned 

weak — 
The time drew near, — oh, how I longed to 

speak 
And tell them I was sorry to have been 
So great a trouble; then a distant din, 
A muffled rumble, and the coach drew near; 
One weary moment, it will soon be here ! 
I sighed, and sank and dreamed myself 

away. 
And then " Thank God, thank God ! " I 

heard them say, 
While with a pang, half wonderment, half 

pain, 
I woke — and found the coach had missed 

the train ! 
Mary Berri (Chapman) Hansbrough 



IX 



LITTLE THEOCRITUS 

Ye white Sicilian goats, who wander all 
About the slopes of this wild mountain 
pass. 

Take heed your horny footsteps do not fall 
Upon the baby dreamer in the grass. 

Let him lie there, half waking, and rejoice 
In the safe shelter of his resting-place. 

In hearing of his shepherd father's voice, 
In reach of fruity clusters o'er his face. 

Look up, sweet baby eyes, look up on high, 
To where Olympus merges in the blue. 

There dwell the deathless gods in majesty, 
The gods who hold a mighty gift for you. 

Those little, clinging hands shall write one 
day, 
Eare, golden words, to lift the hearts of 
men; 
Those curling, downy locks shall wear the 
bay, 
A crown that they shall never lose again. 

Little Theocritus ! Look up and smile, 
Immortal child, for there are coming 
years, 



When the great, busy world shall pause 
awhile 
To listen to your singing through its 
tears. 
Caroline Wilder (Fellowes) Paradise 

NOW IS THE CHERRY 
IN BLOSSOMi 

Now is the cherry in blossom. Love, 

Love of my heart, with the apple to 
follow; 

Over the village at nightfall now 
Merrily veers and darts the swallow. 

At nightfall now in the dark marsh grass 
Awakes the chorus that sings old sor- 
row; 
The evening star is dim for the dew. 

And the apple and lilac will bloom to- 
morrow. 

The honeysuckle is red on the rock; 

The willow floats over the brook like a 
feather; 
In every shadow some love lies hid. 
And you and I in the world together. 

Mary Eleanor Wilkins 



1 Copyright, 1890, by Haepek & Bkotheks. 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



771 



HEY NONNY NO 

There is a race from eld descent, 

Of heaven by earth in joyous mood, 
Before the world grew wise and bent 
In sad, decadent attitude. 

To these each waking is a birth 
That makes them heir to all the 

earth. 
Singing, for pure abandoned mirth, 
Nou nonny non, hey nonny no. 

Perchance ye meet them in the mart, 

In fashion's toil or folly's throe, 
And yet their souls are far apart 

Where primrose winds from uplands blow. 
At heart on oaten pipes they play 
Thro' meadows green and gold with 

May, 
Affined to bird and brook and brae. 
Sing nonny non, hey nonny no. 

Their gage they win in fame's despite, 

While lyric alms to life they fling, — 
Children of laughter, sons of light. 
With equal heart to starve or sing. 
Counting no human creature vile, 
They find the good old world worth 

while ; 
Care cannot rob them of a smile. 
Sing nonny non, hey nonny no. 

For creed, the up-reach of a spire, 

An arching elm-tree's leafy spread, 
A song that lifts the spirit higher 
To star or sunshine overhead. 

Misfortune they but deem God's jest 
To prove His children at their 

best, 
Who, dauntless, rise to His attest. 
Sing nonny non, hey nonny no. 

Successful ones will brush these by. 
Calling them faihire as they pass. 
What reck they this who claim the sky 
For roof, for bed the cosmic grass ! 
When, failures all, we come to lie, 
The grass betwixt us and the sky, 
The gift of gladness will not die ! 
Sing nonny non, hey nonny no. 
Marguerite Merington 



GOLD-OF-OPHIR ROSES 



CALIFORNIA 



O FLOWER of passion, rocked by balmy 

gales. 
Flushed with life's ecstasy. 
Before whose golden glow the poppy pales 
And yields her sovereignty ! 

Child of the ardent south, thy burning 
heart 

Has felt the sun's hot kiss. 
Thy creamy petals falling half apart 

Quiver with recent bliss. 

For joy at thy unequalled loveliness, 
He woos with fierce delight; 

And thy glad soul, half faint with his caress, 
Yet glories in his might. 

Thy sighs go out in perfume on the air, 

Rich incense of thy love, 
And mystic lights, an opalescence rare, 

Play round thee from above. 



So thou dost riot through the glad spring 
days, 
Sun-wooed and revelling in eager life, 
Till all the shadowed fragrance of the 
ways 
With thy rich bloom and glowing tints 
is rife. 

A joyous smile that hides a secret tear, 

A note of music with a minor strain, 
A heart of gold where crimson wounds 
appear, 
Thou breathest all love's sweetness 
and its pain. 

Yet suddenly, even at thy loveliest. 

Thou palest with thine own intensity. 
Ah, Passion's child, thou art most truly 
blest. 
To bloom one perfect day, and then to 
die. 

Grace Atherton Dennen 



772 



CLOSE OF THE CENTURY 



I KNOW NOT WHY 

I LIFT mine eyes against the sky, 
The clouds are weeping, so am I; 
I lift mine eyes again on high, 
The sun is smiling, so am I. 
Why do I smile ? Why do I weep ? 
I do not know; it lies too deep. 

I hear the winds of autumn sigh, 

They break my heart, they make me cry ; 

I hear the birds of lovely spring, 

My hopes revive, I help them sing. 

Why do I sing ? Why do I cry ? 

It lies so deep, I know not why. 

Morris Rosenfeld 

GENTIAN 

So all day long I followed through the 
fields 
The voice of Autumn, calling from afar; 
And now I thought : " Yon hazel thicket 
yields 
A glimpse of her," and now: "These 
asters are 
Sure sign that she of late has passed this 
way; 
Lo ! here the traces of her yellow car." 

And once I looked and seemed to see her 
stand 
Beneath a golden maple's black-drawn 
boughs; 
But when I reached the place, naught but 
a band 
Of crickets did perform their tuneful 
vows 
To the soon fading grass, and through the 
leaves 
The quiet sunlight, falling, blessed my 
brows. 

Till, as the long rays lengthened from the 
west, 
I came upon an altar of gray stone. 
O'er which a creeper flung with pious zest 
Her flickering flames. About that altar 
lone, 
The crowding sumac burned with steady 
fire; 
Before it, stately, stood a priestess; one 

Who turned to me her melancholy eyes. 
I saw her beauty, ripe with color's breath, 



Yet veiled, as when on wood and hill there 
lies 
A mist, a shadow, as of coming death. 
And while I gazed she faded; swift I 
clutched 
Her fringed cloak, which rent, my grasp 
beneath. 

And she was gone. As fluttered to the 
ground 
Its many fragments, I, with sudden fears, 
Stooped, vainly seeking them, when all 
around 
The blue fringed gentian smiled up 
through my tears. 
As one who knows his welcome will be 
warm. 
Although sad news to his beloved he bears. 
Elizabeth Green Crane 



DRYAD SONG 

I AM immortal ! I know it ! I feel it ! 

Hope floods my heart with delight ! 
Running on air, mad with life, dizzy, reel- 
ing. 
Upward I mount, — faith is sight, life is 
feeling, 
Hope is the day-star of might ! 

It was thy kiss, Love, that made me im- 
mortal, — 
" ' Kiss,' Love ? Our lips have not met ! " 
Ah, but I felt thy soul through night's 

portal 
Swoon on my lips at night's sweet, silent 
portal. 
Wild and as sweet as regret. 

Come, let us mount on the wings of the 
morning. 
Flying for joy of the flight, 
Wild with all longing, now soaring, now 

staying, 
Mingling like day and dawn, swinging and 
swaying. 
Hung like a cloud in the light: 
I am immortal ! I feel it ! I feel it ! 
Love bears me up, love is might ! 

Chance cannot touch me ! Time cannot 
hush me ! 
Fear, Hope, and Longing, at strife. 
Sink as I rise, on, on, upward forever, 



ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS 



773 



Gathering strength, gaining breath, — 


One calls from the branch some sweet thing. 


naught can sever 
Me from the Spirit of Life ! 




And one sings on the wing 
The refrain. 


Margaret Fuller 




You sang me a song 

My heart thrilled to hear. 


SING AGAIN 




The refrain 
Has run like a fillet of gold 


You sang me a song: 




Through the woof 


'T was the close of the year — 




Of the cold 


Sing again ! 
I cannot remember the name 


To- 


Dark days of a year, 
night there 's a year at its start. 


Or the words: 




All the birds are aloof, 


'T is the same 


Your eyes hold the sun for my part, 


We listen to hear 




And the Spring 's in your heart — 


When the windows are open in spring. 
And the air's full of birds; 




Sing again ! 

Marie Van Vorst 



THE PARTING OF THE WAYS ^ 



Untrammelled Giant of the West, 
With all of Nature's gifts endowed, 

With all of Heaven's mercies blessed, 
Nor of thy power unduly proud — 

Peerless in courage, force, and skill, 

And godlike in thy strength of will, — 

Before thy feet the ways divide: 

One path leads up to heights sublime; 

Downward the other slopes, where bide 
The refuse and the wrecks of Time. 

Choose then, nor falter at the start, 

O choose the nobler path and part ! 

Be thou the guardian of the weak, 
Of the unfriended, thou the friend; 

No guerdon for thy valor seek. 
No end beyond the avowed end. 

Wouldst thou thy godlike power preserve, 

Be godlike in the will to serve ! 

Joseph B. Gilder 

1 Copyright, 1900, by Harpek & Beothebs. 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



These Notes are restricted, usually, to succinct biographical data concerning the poets quoted in this volume, 
with mention of their leading works. In some cases, chiefly those of the most recent poets, brief comments are 
added. The reader will find in " Poets of America " — the book, by the present editor, to which " An American 
Anthology " is adapted — a critical review of those among the following authors who became known earlier than 
the last decade of the Nineteenth Century. 

Where records of birth, death, etc., differ from those previously accepted, the editor now has good authority for 
the statements made. He also has endeavored to present correctly the names and dates of publications, as far as 
given. 



ABBEY, Henry, b. Eondout, N. Y., 1842. 
For some years a journalist in New York City, 
but after 1864 a merchant in his native town, 
and now residing at Kingston, N. Y. He has 
issued " May Dreams," 1862 ; " Ballads of Good 
Deeds," 1872; "The City of Success," 1883; 
complete "Poems," 1886, 2d edition, 1895. 

ADAMS, John Quiney, b. Braintree, Mass., 
1767 ; d. Washington, D. C, 1848. Sixth Presi- 
dent of the United States. A volume of his 
quaint, old-fashioned verse, " Poems," appeared 
in 1848. 

ADAMS, Mary (Mathews) (Barnes), b. 
Brooklyn, N. Y., 18 — . She was educated at 
Packer Institute, and became the wife of Alfred 
S. Barnes, the publisher. Some years after 
his death she was married to Charles Kendall 
Adams, president of the University of Wiscon- 
sin. Her volume of poems, " The Choir Visi- 
ble," was published in 1897. 

ADAMS, Oscar Fay, b. Worcester, Mass., 
18 — . A lecturer to classes upon English lit- 
erature and history and Gothic architecture. 
His standard " Dictionary of American Au- 
thors " was first published in 1884. It has been 
revised and much enlarged in recent editions. 
Among his other works are "Post-Laureate 
Idyls," 1886, and "The Archbishop's Unguarded 
Moment, and Other Stories," 1899. 

ALBEE, John, b. Bellingham, Mass., 1833. 
Studied divinity at Harvard, but has been de- 
voted to philosophy, nature study, literary and 
linguistic research. While pursuing these, he 
has otherwise divided his life between foreign 
travel and tillage of his ocean farm at New 
Castle, N. H., and his mountain farm near 
Chocorua in the same state. A lecturer before 
the Concord School of Philosophy and elsewhere. 
Author of "Literary Art," 1881; "Poems," 
1883 ; " New Castle, Historic and Picturesque," 
1884; "Prose Idyls," 1892. 

ALCOTT, Amos Bronson, philosopher, b. 
Wolcott, Conn., 1799; d. Boston, Mass., 1888. 
His early life was spent in teaching young 
children in his native State, and afterwards in 



Boston, where he went to reside in 1828. His 
ideas being denounced as too advanced, he gave 
up his school and interested himself in the study 
of philosophy, at Concord, Mass., and in the 
upbuilding of various reforms. In 1848, after 
visiting England, he, with some English friends, 
made an unsuccessful attempt to establish a new 
community on a farm called " Fruitlands," near 
Harvard. He then began to instruct by means 
of more or less formal "conversations," held 
wherever there might be a demand for them. 
The friend and colleague of Emerson, and dean 
of the Concord School of Philosophy, and for 
many years the hierarch of our transcendental 
grouj) of poets and illuminati. Contributed to 
"The Dial," 1839-42, and _ other_ periodicals. 
Published " Conversations with Children on the 
Gospels," 1836 ; "Tablets," 1868; "Concord 
Days," 1872 ; " Table Talk," 1877 ; " New Con- 
necticut," 1881 ; "Sonnets and Canzonets," 1882. 
The last two volumes were edited by F. B. San- 
born. 

ALCOTT, Louisa May, daughter of A. B. 
Alcott, b. Germantown, Penn., 1832 ; d. Boston, 
Mass., 1888. In 1840 her family removed to 
Concord, Mass., where she grew up under the 
influence of such men as Thoreau and her father. 
To assist her kindred, she tried one occupation 
after another, as her story ' ' Work ' ' and her 
" Life, Letters, and Journals," edited by Ednah 
D. Cheney, show, but finally came into wide 
favor as a writer for the young. Her famous 
" Little Women," 1867-68, was followed by 
numerous stories of its class. The poem given 
in this volume appeared in " The Atlantic 
Monthly," 1863. 

ALDRICH, Anne Keeve, b. New York, 
N. Y., 1866 ; d. there, 1892. Grand-niece of the 
poet James Aldrich. Her first book, " The 
Rose of Flame," 1889, was adversely criticized 
for its naive and unrestrained expression, but 
its verse showed that she possessed the gifts 
of a poet. It was followed in 1890 by a novel, 
" The Feet of Love." She died before her last 
volume, "Songs about Love, Life, and Death," 
was published, and many of its short lyrics, in 



778 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



the revelation of a suifering but maturer and 
truer woraanhood, are very touching. 

ALDRICH, James, editor and writer, b. 
Mattituck, L. I., 1810; d. New York, N. Y., 
1856. Founder of the " Literary Gazette," 
N. Y., 1840, in which paper many of his poems 
appeared. His daughter, Mrs. Ely, issued a 
collection of his poems for private circulation, 
1884. 

ALDRICH, Thomas Bailey, b. Portsmouth, 
N. H., 11 Nov., 1836. Part of his childhood 
was spent in Louisiana. At the age of seven- 
teen he went to New York, gained the friendship 
of N. P. Willis, and soon became a regular con- 
tributor to the ' ' Mirror ' ' and ' ' Home Journal. ' ' 
His "Ballad of Babie Bell," printed in the 
N. Y. "Journal of Commerce," 1855, touched 
the popular heart. After some years of literary 
journalism in New York, — where he was inti- 
mately associated with Bayard Taylor and the 
Stoddards, O'Brien, Winter, and the present 
annalist, and added the zest and wit of his bril- 
liant companionship to the gatherings of the 
bright young writers cheerily struggling for 
subsistence and reputation in that unfriendly 
time, — he removed to Boston, where he edited 
" Every Saturday," 1865-74, and " The Atlantic 
Monthly," 1881-90. His first volume of verse 
was "The Bells," 1854. It was followed by 
" The Ballad of Babie Bell, and Other Poems," 
1858 ; " Pampinea, and Other Poems," 1861 ; 
"Cloth of Gold, and Other Poems," 1874; 
" Flower and Thorn," 1876 ; " Friar Jerome's 
Beautiful Book," 1881 ; "Mercedes, and Later 
Lyrics," 1884; " Wyndham Towers," 1889; 
" The Sisters' Tragedy, and other Poems," 
1891. In "Complete Poems," 1882, and his 
, "Household Edition," 1895, he brought together 
his metrical writings, but in 1898 gave a final 
revision to all of his poems which he wished to 
preserve, re-arranging them with great care and 
taste for publication in two volximes. In prose 
he has written: "Out of His Head, A Ro- 
mance, ' ' 1862 ; ' ' The Story of a Bad Boy, " 1870 ; 
"Marjorie Daw, and Other People," 1873; 
"Prudence Palfrey," 1874; "The Queen of 
Sheba " 1877 ; " The Stillwater Tragedy, " 1880 ; 
etc. The play of "Mercedes" was staged 
with much effect, and its union of dramatic and 
poetic qualities excited regret that American 
conditions had not favored from the first a nat- 
ural bent of the author for work in this form. — 
Cp. " Poets of America," pp. 440, 462. 

ALLEN, Elizabeth Ann (Chase) (Akers), 
"Florence Percy," b. Strong, Me., 1832. Her 
first husband was the sculptor, Paul Akers, who 
died in 1861. In 1865 she was married to E. M. 
Allen of New York, and lives near that city. 
Among her writings are " Forest Buds," 1855 ; 
" The Silver Bridge, and Other Poems," 1866 ; 
" Poems," 1866 ; " The High-Top Sweeting, and 
Other Poems," 1891; "The Proud Lady of 
Stavoren," 1898. Her authorship of the ballad 
"Rock me to Sleep, Mother" is no longer 
questioned. 



ALLSTON, "Washington, artist, b. Wacca- 
maw, near Georgetown, S. C, 1779 ; d. Cam- 
bridge, Mass., 1843. Scion of a distinguished 
South Carolina family, and closely associated 
with the begimiings of literature and art in 
America. Graduated at Harvard, 1800. Spent 
tJiree years in London, a student at the Royal 
Academy, and studied afterward in Paris and 
Rome. Returned to America in 1809, and mar- 
ried a sister of the Rev. Dr. Channing. Went 
again, in 1811, to London, where his wife died ; 
afterward, in 1830, married a sister of Richard 
H. Dana. From 1818 until his death was a res- 
ident of Boston and of Cambridge, Mass. Is 
best known as a painter, but made also impor- 
tant contributions to the literature of his period. 
His writings are ' ' The Sylphs of the Sea- 
sons, and Other Poeras," 1813; "Monaldi, a 
Tale," 1841 ; " Lectures on Art, and Poems," 
published after his death, in 1850, 

ANTROBUS, John, artist, b. Walsall, 
Staffordshire, England, 1831. Since 1849 he 
has lived in America ; and, though for some 
time an art student in London and Paris, has 
usually made his home in Detroit, Mich. His 
own painting, "The Cowboy," suggested his 
poem of the same name. 

ARTfOLD, George, journalist, b. New 
York City, 1834 ; d._ Strawberry Farnas, N. J., 
1865. Studied painting, but adopted literature 
as his profession. Was a versatile writer for 
the magazines. His " MeArone Papers " com- 
menced in "Vanity Fair" in 1860 and con- 
tinued in that and other journals until his 
death. Two volumes of poems entitled " Drift : 
a Sea-Shore Idyl, and Other Poems," and 
"Poems Grave and Gay," were edited by 
WiUiam Winter and first published in 1866. 

AURIWGER, Obadiah Cyrus, clergyman, 
b._ Glens Falls, N. Y., 1849. Studied tmder 
private tuition. Joined the U. S. Marine 
Corps, 1871, serving until 1875. He was occu- 
pied with agricultural pursuits, 1875-89. In 
1890 he was ordained a Presbyterian minister, 
and became pastor of the Third Presbyterian 
Church of Troy, N. Y., at which town he still 
resides. His volumes of poems are " Scythe 
and Sword," 1887 ; " The Heart of the Golden 
Roan," 1891; "Episode of Jane MeCrae," 
1893 ; and, with J. Oliver Smith, " The 
Christ," 1899. 

AUTHOR UNFOUND. What is usually 
the fifth stanza of the old-time ballad "The 
Yankee Man-of-War " (still familiar to the offi- 
cers and tars of the U. S. Navy) was omitted 
from the text on pp. 8, 9, because it was mani- 
festly faulty and inaccurate in the only nauti- 
cal ballad-book, at the present editor's com- 
mand, which then contained it. A probably 
correct version has been found in Walsh's " Pa- 
triotic and Naval Songster," 1898, as follows : — 

The nightly robes our good ship wore were her whole 

topsails three. 
Her spanker and her standing jib — the courses being 

free, 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



779 



" Now, lay aloft ! my heroes bold, not a moment must 

be passed ! " 
And royals and top-gallant sails were quickly on each 

mast. 

The editor inserts the stanza here, regretting 
that it was not earlier available, but thinks that 
the ballad, as given in this Anthology, goes 
along quite as well without it. 

BAKER, George Augustus, lawyer, b. 
New York, N. Y., 1849. Graduated at the 
City College of New York and from the Colum- 
bia University Law School. Author of several 
prose works, and of "Point-Lace and Dia- 
monds," verse, 1875. 

BANGS, John Kendrick, b. Yonkers, N.Y., 
1862. Graduated at Columbia. He was asso- 
ciate editor of " Life," 1884-88. He edited Har- 
per's "Drawer," 1888-98, and " Literatiire," 
1899 ; at the close of which year he became ed- 
itor of " Harper's Weekly." Some of his many 
books are "Coffee and Eepartee," 1886; "A 
House Boat on the Stjrx," 1896; "Cobwebs 
from a Library Corner," verse, 1899. 

BARKER, Edward D.' His song;, "Go 
Sleep, Ma Honey," first appeared in the 
Chicago "Record," and was afterwards suc- 
cessfully set to music by Eugene Cowles. 

BASHFORD, Herbert, librarian, b. Sioux 
City, Iowa, 1871. In 189- he became state 
librarian of Washington. Author of "Nature 
Stories of the Northwest," 189-, and "Songs 
from Puget Sea," 1898. 

BATES, Arlo, educator and novelist, b. 
East Machias, Me., 1850. Graduated from 
Bowdoin, and in 1880 became editor of the 
Boston "Sunday Courier." Was afterwards 
appointed professor of English literature in the 
Mass. Inst, of Technology. Among his poeti- 
cal works are " Berries of the Brier," 1886 ; 
" Sonnets in Shadow," 1887 ; " A Poet and His 
Self," 1891 ; " Told in the Gate," 1892 ; " The 
Torch-Bearers," 1894. His novels include: 
"The Pagans," 1884; "A Wheel of Fire," 
1885; "A Lad's Love," 1887; "The Philis- 
tines," 1888; "The Puritans," 1898. His 
Lowell Institute lectures have been published 
iis "Talks on Writing English," 1896, and 
" Talks on the Study of Literature," 1897. 

BATES, Charlotte Piske (Madame Rogd), 
b. New York,_N. Y., 1838. Her hfe has been 
passed mostly in New York and in Cambridge, 
Mass. In 1891 she was married to M. Adolphe 
Rog^, who died in 1896. She was Longfellow's 
assistant in the compilation of "Poems of 
Places," and editor of " The Cambridge Book 
of Poetry," 1882. Invented the "Longfellow 
Birthday Book," the pioneer of others of the 
kind. Author of "Risk, and Other Poems," 
1879. _ (Her decease has been falsely reported 
in a biographical encyelopEedia.) 

BATES, Clara (Doty), b. Ann Arbor, Mich., 
1838 ; d. Chicago, 111., 1895. Was married, in 
1869, to Morgan Bates, a publisher. Mrs. Bates 
has been chiefly known as a writer of juvenile 
verse and stories. Some of her publications 



are "Blind Jakey," 1868; "Child Lore: its 
Classics, Traditions, and Jingles," 1880; "On 
the Way to Wonderland," 1884; "From 
Heart's Content," verse, 1892. 

BATES, Herbert, educator, b. Hyde Park, 
Mass., 1868. Graduated from Harvard Uni- 
versity, class of 1890. Since 1897 Mr. Bates 
has held the position of head teacher of Eng- 
lish in the Manual Training High School of 
Brooklyn, N. Y. Author of " Songs of Exile," 
1896, and the editor of several classics for 
school use. 

BATES, Katharine Lee, educator, b. Fal- 
mouth, Mass., 1859. Graduated at WeUesley 
College, where she became associate professor, 
and is now professor of English literature. Be- 
sides editing editions of various English classics, 
she has published, " The College Beautiful, and 
Other Poems," 1887; "Sunshine, and Other 
Verses for Children," 1890. 

BEERS, Ethelinda (Eliot), " Ethel Lynn 
Beers," b. Goshen, N. Y., 1827 ; d. Orange, 
N. J., 1879. _ A descendant of John Eliot, the 
Indian missionary, to the spelling of whose 
surname " Eliot " she and her family reverted, 
the spelling " Elliott " having been adopted by 
her immediate ancestors. The title-poem of 
her volume " All Quiet Along the Potomac, 
and Other Poems," 1879, first appeared in a/ 
"Harper's Weekly," Sa^. 30, 1861, under the /l 
title " The Picket Guard." 

" BEERS, Ethel Lynn," — See Ethelinda 
Eliot Beers. 

BEERS, Henry Augustin, b.Buffalo,N. Y., 
1847. Graduated at Yale, 1869, where he has 
been tutor, assistant professor, and, since 1880, 
professor of English literature. Author of 
" Odds and Ends," 1878 ; " Life of N. P. Wil- 
lis," 1885 ; " The Thankless Muse," verse, 1885 ; 
" Outline Sketches of English and American 
Literature," 1886-87 ; " From Chaucer to Ten- 
nyson," 1890 ; " A Suburban Pastoral, and 
Other Tales," 1894 ; "The Ways of _ Yale," 
1895 ; " A History of English Romanticism in 
the Eighteenth Centiiry," 1899 ; and editor of 
"A Century of American Literature," 1878; 
"Selections from Willis's Prose Writings," 
1885. 

BELL, Robert Mowry, physician, b. Chi- 
cago, 111., 1860. Graduated at the University 
of Minnesota and the Harvard Medical School, 
and spent several years of study in Europe. 
Resided chiefly in Minneapolis, until in 1893 ill- 
health obhged him to give up practising and 
to remove to California. Is now studying in 
Germany with a view to work as an instructor. 
His verse, contributed to periodicals, is of an 
elevated order. " The Tutelage," it may be 
noted, is a fresh variant upon the shell-theme 
of Landor and Wordsworth, and an optimistic 
summing up of the questions involved. Cp. 
" The Nature and Elements of Poetry," pp. 
205-208. 

BENJAMIlSr, Park, journalist and lecturer, 
b. Demerara, British Guiana, 1809 ; d. New 



780 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



York, N. Y., 1864. Editor of the " New Eng- 
land Magazine," 1835-37, when he transferred it 
to New York City as the " American Monthly- 
Magazine." He also assisted Greeley upon the 
" Tribune." In 1840 Mr. Benjamin established 
" Our New World." Of his many poems, 
which never have been collected, " The Old 
Sexton " is a familiar example. It was recalled 
by the present editor too late for insertion with 
poems of its date. 

EElSrWETT, Henry Holeomb, journalist, 
b. Ciiillieothe, O., 1863. A writer of stories of 
army and frontier life. Much of his time is 
devoted to the science of ornithology. 

BENNETT, John, b. Chillicothe, 0., 1865. 
A writer of romantic historical fiction and 
children's stories. The prose of his ''Master 
Skylark," in which we have Warwickshire, 
and London, and Shakespeare's time, and 
glimpses of gentle Will himself, is in choice 
keeping with the songs detached from it for 
this Anthology. 

BENSEL, James Berry, b. New York, 
N. Y., 1856 ; d. there, 1886. The greater portion 
of his life was passed at Lynn, Mass. Ill-health 
and inability to complete his Kterary work, 
which at one time showed g^reat promise, sad- 
dened his last years. Author of " King Ko- 
phetua's Wife," novel, 1883 ; " In the King's 
Garden, and other Poems," 1885. 

BENTON, Joel, b. Amenia, N. Y., 1832. 
Editor for a while of the Amenia "Times," 
and a frequent literary contribu^tor to news- 
papers and magazines. Has published "Emer- 
son as a Poet," 1883; "In the Poe Circle," 
1899. 

BETHUNE, George Washington, b. 
New York, N. Y., 1805 -d. Florence, Italy, 1862. 
Minister of note in the Dutch Kef ormed Church, 
Brooklyn, N. Y., and author of " Lays of 
Love and Faith,' 1848; "Orations and Dis- 
courses," 1850. His edition of Walton's " The 
Compleat Angler " appeared in 1846. 

BETTS, Craven Langstroth, b. St. John, 
New Brunswick, 1853. Of Loyalist descent. 
Was educated in his native city. Resided in 
New York after 1879, engaged in literary work. 
"Songs from Beranger," translations, 1888; 
" The Perfume Holder : a Persian Love Poem," 
1892 ; " Tales of a Garrison Town," with A. W. 
Eaton, 1892; " A Garland of Sonnets," 1899. 

BIERCE, Ambrose, critic and journalist, 
b. Ohio, 1842, of New England parentage. He 
served as private and then as officer, through 
the Civil War. The remainder of his life, ex- 
cept a few years in England, has been passed 
chiefly in California, where he has written his 
pungent criticisms for the "Examiner" and 
other periodicals. Author of "Soldiers and 
Civilians;" "Can Such Things Be ? " short 
stories; " Black Beetles in Amber," satires in 
verse, 1?92 ; and " Fantastic Fables." 

BLAKE, Mary EUzabeth (McGrath), b. 
Dungarven, Ireland, 184-. Her family removed 



to Quincy, Mass., when she was six years old. 
Since her marriage to Dr. J. G. Blake she has 
lived in Boston. Author of "Poems," 1881; 
"Youth in Twelve Centuries," 1886; "Verses 
Along the Way," 1890; and several books of 
travel. 

BLOCK, Louis James, educator, b. 1851. 
His childhood was passed in St. Louis. A 
graduate of Washington University. For some 
years Mr. Block has resided in Chicago, and is 
principal of one of its high schools. Author of 

Exile, a Dramatic Episode," 1880 ; " Dramatic 
Sketches and Poems," 1891 ■ " The New World, 
with Other Verse," 1895 ; '' Capriecios," 1898. 

BLOEDE, Gertrude, " Stuart Sterne," b. 
Dresden, Germany, 1845. Came to America in 
1850; a resident of Brooklyn, N. Y., since 1861. 
She was an associate and prot^g^ of Mr. and 
Mrs. Bayard Taylor, and the devoted friend of 
the poet Dorgan for some years preceding his 
death. Author of ' ' Poems, ' ' 1874 ; ' ' Giorgio, and 
Other Poems," 1881; "Beyond the Shadow," 
1888; " Piero da Castiglione," 1890 ; "The 
Story of Two Lives," novel, 1891. 

BLOOD, Henry Ames, b. Temple, N. H., 
1838. Graduating at Dartmouth College, he 
afterwards taught for a number of years. At 
the beginning of President Lincoln's adminis- 
tration he became connected with the State 
Department at Washington, where he has per- 
manently remained. Mr. Blood's quaint and 
original lyrics have not been collected. He is 
the author of several unpublished dramas. 

BLOUNT, Edward Augustus, Jr., Colum- 
bia University, Class of 1895. 

BOGART, Elizabeth, b. New York, N. Y., 
180-. Daughter of the late Rev. D. S. Bogart. 
About 1825, Miss Bogart began to write, under 
the pseudonym "Estelle," for the "Mirror." 
Her prose and verse have never been collected, 
though there is material sufficient for several 
volumes. Her poem "He Came too Late," a 
favorite and typical example of old-time lyrical 
sentiment, was remembered "too late" for in- 
sertion with verse of its day. 

BOKEK, George Henry, dramatist and 
diplomat, b. Philadelphia, Penn., 6 Oct., 1823; 
d. there, 2 Jan., 1890. Graduated at Prince- 
ton, and, after a period of travel in Europe, 
made his permanent home in Philadelphia. His 
first volume of verse, "The Lesson of Life, 
and Other Poems," was issued in 3847. It was 
succeeded the following year by " Calaynos," 
a blank-verse tragedy, which was successfully 
produced in 1849 at a London theatre. " Fran- 
cesca da Rimini " is now the best known of the 
metrical dramas which, with his miscellaneous 
poems, were published in two volumes, "Plays 
and Poems," 1856. Mr. Boker was secretary of 
the Union League of Philadelphia from 1861 to 
1871, and was actively patriotic during the Civil 
War. "Poems of the War," containing some 
lyrics widely familiar, appeared in 1864. Later 
volumes are " Konigsmark, and Other Poems," 
1869; "The Book of the Dead," 1882; and 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



781 



"Sonnets," 1886. He was U. S. minister to 
Turkey from 1871 to 1875, and to Russia from 
1875 to 1879, Throughout his literary career he 
was closely associated with Bayard Taylor and 
R. H. Stoddard. To represent Boker with fair- 
ness, extracts should be given from the dramatic 
work to which he devoted his best powers, and 
for which the repeated success of ' Calaynos " 
and " Francesea da Rimini" showed that he 
possessed both literary and practical equipments. 
The ballads, sonnets, etc., to which this An- 
thology is restricted, exhibit his lyrical strength 
and quality. Cp. " Poets of America," pp. 56, 
404. 

BOLTON, Sarah Knowles, b. Farmington, 
Conn., 1841. She was married to Charles E. 
Bolton, and removed with him to Cleveland, 0. 
A fertile and excellent writer of books for the 
young. Author of "Girls Who Became Fa- 
mous," 1886; "Famous American Authors," 
1887 ; " Famous Types of Womanhood," 1892 ; 
"The Inevitable," poems, 1895. 

BONER, John Henry, b. Salem, N. C, 
1845. Edited papers in Salem and Asheville, 
N. C. Chief clerk of the N. C. House of Rep- 
resentatives, 1869-70. Entered the civil service 
at Washington, 1871 ; removed to New York in 
1887, and has been on the staffs of " The Cen- 
tury Dictionary," "The New York World," 
"Literary Digest." and "A Library of Amer- 
ican Literature." Published " Whispering 
Pines," poems, 1883. He has now returned to 
bureau work in Washington. 

BOWDITOH, Nathaniel IngersoU, law- 
yer, b. Salem, Mass., 1805 ; d. Boston, Mass., 
1861. He entered Harvard at thirteen, gradu- 
ated in 1822, and lived in Boston. His memoir 
of his father, the mathematician and astrono- 
mer, was pixblished in 1839, in the same volume 
with a translation of Laplace's "M^canique Ce- 
leste." 

BOWKER, Richard Rogers, b. Salem, 
Mass., 1848. A graduate of the College of New 
York. He was literary editor of the N. Y. 
"Evening Mail," and became editor and owner 
of " The Publishers' Weekly," an editor of the 
' ' Ijibrary Journal, ' ' and compiler of the ' ' Amer- 
ican Catalogue," 2 vols. 1885. He has published : 
"Of Work and Wealth," 1883; "Copyright: 
its Law and its Literature," 1886, and various 
economic and political treatises. Secretary o£ 
the American Publishers' Copyright League 
and active in the movement for International 
Copyright, 1884-91. 

BOYESEN, Hjahnar Hjorth, b. Freder- 
ieksvaern, Norway, 1848 ; d. New York City, 
1895. He was graduated at the University of 
Christiana, and removed to Chicago, 111., where 
he was associate editor of the Scandinavian 
paper " Fremad." In 1872-74 he studied philo- 
logy at Leipsic, Germany. In 1874 he became 
professor of German at Cornell, and in 1880 
professor of Germanic languages at Columbia 
College. He published : " Gunnar, a Norse Ro- 
mance," 1874; "Goethe and Schiller, Their 



Lives and Works," 1878 ; " Ilka on the Hill-Top, 
and other Stories," 1881, of which the title-story, 
dramatized as "Alpine Roses," was produced 
in 1884 ; "Essays on Scandinavian Literature ; " 
"Essays on German Literature;" "Idyls of 
Norway, and Other Poems," 1883 ; " Vagabond 
Tales," 1889 ; the " Norseland " series of books 
for boys, etc. 

BOYLE, Sarah (Roberts), b. Portsmouth, 
N. H., 1812 ; d. New York, N. Y., 1869. Daugh- 
ter of E. Q. Roberts of the diplomatic service. 
After her marriage to Dr. James Boyle she 
lived in New York City. Author of several 
favorite poems. 

BRACKETT, Anna Callander, distin- 
guished instructor, b. Boston, Mass., 18 — . Edu- 
cated in the schools of that city, and graduated 
from the State Normal School, Franiingham, 
Mass., 1856, to which she returned as a teacher, 
remaining three years. For two years Miss 
Brackett was vice-principal of the Normal 
School in Charleston, S. C, resigning that 
position in 1861. One year's teaching in the 
High School, Cambridge, Mass., preceded her 
appointment as principal of the Normal School, 
St. Louis, Mo. She was the first woman to 
hold such a position. After teaching there 
nine years, she founded her well-knoAvn school 
for girls in New York City, which she conducted 
for twenty years. Miss Brackett is the author 
of many educational essays, sketches, stories, 
and poems, and was a scholarly writer for Pro- 
fessor W. T. Harris's "Journal of Speculative 
Philosophy." Her books are: "Education of 
American Girls," 1874 ; " Poetry for Home and 
School," edited collection, 1876; "Philosophy 
of Education, Translation from Rosenkranz," 
1886 ; " Technique of Rest," 1892. 

BRADLEY, Mrs. Mary Emily (Wesley), 
b, Easton, Md., 1835 ; d. Washington, D. C, 
1898, She was married in New York City to 
George T. Bradley, and formed a friendship 
with R. H. Stoddard, who as editor of the 
"Aldine" encouraged her in verse-writing. 
She published " Hidden Sweetness," poems,, 
1886, and more than twenty stories for girls. 

BRAIN ARD, John Gardiner Calkens, b. 
New London, Conn., 1796 ; d. 1828. Graduated 
at Yale ; studied and practised law, but soon 
devoted himself to .iournalism. Wrote for the 
"Microscope," a New Haven paper ; became 
editor of the "Connecticut Mirror," Hartford, 
Conn., 1822, which post he held until his health 
failed in 1827. Published his first volume of 
poems in 1825. A new edition called " Literary 
Remains," with a sketch of the author by 
Whittier, was issued in 1832. 

BRAINARD, Mary Gardiner, b. 18—, 
Daughter of a prominent lawyer of New London, 
Conn., and niece of the poet J. G. C. Brainard. 
" Not Knowing '' appeared first in the " Con- 
gregationalist " in 1869. The editor of this 
Anthology was unable for years to discover the 
authorship of this womanly and toucliing ex- 
pression of a faith that is its own beatitude. 



782 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



BKANCH, Mary Lydia (BoUes), b. New 
London, Conn., 1840. Married, in 1870, John 
L. Branch, a lawyer. Author of ' ' The Kanter 
Girls " and other stories for young people. 

" BRIDGES, Madeline." — See Mary 
Ainge De Vere. 

BRIDGES, Robert, " Droeli," b. Shippens- 
burg, Penn., 1858. Graduated at Princeton. 
He was assistant news-editor of the N. Y. 
"Evening Post" from 1881 until his appoint- 
ment as assistant editor of ' ' Scribner's Maga- 
zine " in 1887. Has been literary editor of 
"Life "since 1883. Author of "Overheard in 
Arcady," 3894; "Suppressed Chapters and 
Other Bookishness," 1895 ; and of various poems. 

BRISTOL, Augusta (Cooper), b. Croydon, 
N. H., 1835. Has chiefly been occupied as an 
educator and lecturer. Was married in 1866 to 
Louis Bristol of New Haven, Conn., removing 
to Vineland, N. J., in 1872. She is the author 
of several books on social topics and of a volume 
of poems, " The Web of Life," 1895. 

BROOKS, Francis, lawyer and physician, 
b. Menaphis, Tenn., 1867; drowned. Lake 
Geneva, Wis., 1898. Entered the class of 1889 
at Harvard, but left before graduating ; and 
subsequently obtained a degree from the Chi- 
cago College of Law ; and later studied at the 
University of Virginia. For a few months a 
lawyer ; then a doctor of no mean distinction ; 
and always devoted to literature, Francis 
Brooks died at what seemed to be the beginning 
of his true career. His initial volume, "Mar- 
gins," appeared in 1897, and a posthumous 
edition of his complete poems, edited, with a 
prefatory m.emoir, by Wallace Rice, was issued 
in 1898. 

BROOKS, Maria (Gowen), " Maria del 
Occidents," b. Medford, Mass., about 1795 ; d. 
Matanzas, Cuba, 1845, Of Welsh descent. Her 
father, a man of refinement, died when she was 
young, and she was educated by Mr. Brooks, a 
merchant of Boston, to whom she became en- 
gaged at the age of fourteen. Her "Judith, 
Esther, and Other Poems," appeared in 1820. 
Became a widow in 1823 ; went to live with an 
uncle in Cuba ; and at his death inherited his 
property. Returned to the United States and 
lived at Hanover, N. H. Visited Europe in 
1830 ; met Southey ; finished writing " Zophiel, 
or the Bride of Seven," while at his home in 
Keswick, the first part having been completed 
in Cuba, and published in 1825. Southey edited 
the complete poem piiblished in London, 1833, 
where it excited much attention. In 1843 she 
issued for private circulation a semi-autobio- 
graphical prose romance, " Idomen, or the Vale 
of Yamuri." The " Ode to the Departed " 
was written in Cuba, 1844. 

BROOKS, PhiUips, Protestant Episcopal 
bishop, b. Boston, Mass., 1835 ; d. there, 1893. 
A graduate of Harvard, he was ordahied in the 
Episcopal ministry, 1859. He became rector of 
Trinity Church in Boston, 1869, and bishop of 
Massachusetts, 1891, and was honored for his 



gifts and beloved for the beauty and sincerity 
of his nature. He published many volumes of 
sermons, and was the author of several favorite 
hymns. 

BROTHERTOTT, AUce (Williams), b. 
Cambridge, Ind., 18 — . Since her marriage, 
1876, to William E. Brotherton, she has 
lived in Covington, Ky., and near Cinciimati, 
O. She has pubhshed: "Beyond the Veil," 
poems, 1886 ; " The Sailing of King Olaf , and 
Other Poems," 1888 ; andhas delivered lectures 
on literature. 

BROWN, Alice, b. Hampton Falls, N. H,, 
1857. Removed to Boston, where she ex- 
pected to teach, but soon devoted her atten- 
tion to literature. She is on the staff of the 
"Youth's Companion," and is the author of 
several volumes of prose, and of "The Road 
to Castaly," verse, 1896. 

BROWN", Joseph Brownlee, b. Charles, 
ton, S. C, 1824 ; d. Brooklyn, N. Y., 1888, 
Graduated at Dartmouth. One of the younger 
transcendentalists who wrote for "The Atlan- 
tic Monthly." He was prevented by ill-health 
from fulfilling the promise of his youth. 

BROWN, Phcebe (Hinsdale), b. Canaan, 
N. Y., 1783; d. Henry, 111., 1861. Daughter 
of George Hinsdale, the composer. She re- 
sided in Connecticut and Massachusetts until 
her removal in 1849 to Illinois. Her famous 
hymn, beginning " I love to steal awhile away," 
was written in 1818. 

BROWN, Theron, clergyman and author, 
b. Willimantic, Conn.^ 1832. Graduated at 
Yale, 1856. Entered the Baptist ministry, 
1859. Editorially connected with "Youth's 
Companion" since 1870. Besides much work 
in prose, Mr. Brown has published "Life 
Songs," a volume of poems, 1894. 

BROWNE, Francis Fisher, b. South Hal- 
ifax, Vt., 1843. Before enlisting as a volunteer 
in the U. S. army, he worked in his father's 
newspaper office at Chieopee, Mass. At the 
end of the war he went to Chicago, where, in 
1880, he founded his critical semi-monthly, 
" The Dial," which he has invariably main- 
tained at a high standard. Author of " The 
Every-Day Life of Abraham Lincoln," 1886; 
" Volunteer Grain," poems, 1895, and editor of 
several excellent collections of verse. 

BROWNE, Irving, b. Marshall, N. Y., 
1835; d. Buffalo, N. Y., 1899. He practised 
law in Troy, N. Y., edited the Albany "Law 
Journal," and finally made his home in Buffalo. 
Wrote and edited numerous legal treatises, and 
was a collector of rare books. Among his 
works are : " Law and Lawyers in Literature," 
1883; "Iconoclasm and Whitewash," essays, 
1885; "Our Best Society," comedy; "The 
House of the Heart," poems, 1897 ; and_ " The 
Track of the Book- Worm," an essay, with bal- 
lads on books. 

BROWNELL, Henry Howard, b. Provi- 
dence, R. L, 6 Feb,, 1820; d. Hartford, Conn.. 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



783 



1872. Graduated at Trinity College. "Was 
admitted to the bar in 184i, but practised only- 
five years. Early in the civil war, a poem of his 
on Farragut attracted that commander's atten- 
tion, and led to Brownell's appointment as 
acting ensign on board the Hartford. He 
■witnessed the battle of Mobile Bay, and at the 
close of the war accompanied Farragut on his 
cruise to the European ports, resigning in 1868, 
His poetical works are " Poems," 1847 ; " Lyrics 
of a Day," 18(34; "War Lyrics, and Other 
Poems," with an appreciative preface by T. B. 
Aldrich, 1866. 

BRUCE, Wallace, lecturer, b. Hillsdale, 
N. Y.,1844. Graduated at Yale. After exten- 
sive travels in Europe, began work as a lec- 
turer in 1870. Was U. S. consul at Edinburgh, 
1889-93. Author of many poems on occasions, 
and of "The Land of Burns," 1871); "Old 
Homestead Poems," 1887 ; " Wayside Poeras," 
1895 ; etc. 

BRYANT, William Cullen, journalist and 
poet, b. Cummington, Mass., 3 Nov., 1794 ; d. 
New York City, 12 June, 1878. His first pub- 
lished poem, on the Progress of Knowledge, 
appeared in the "Hampshire Gazette," 1807. 
In 1808 his philippic " The Embargo," a politi- 
cal satire, was published in Boston and attracted 
much attention. He seems, however, to have 
received little commendation from his father 
for his efforts in versification, and often over- 
severe criticism, but was apparently undis- 
eouraged. In an autobiography of his early 
life, it appears that his education -was rather 
elementary, until his fourteenth year, when he 
began his preparations for college. He entered 
Williams College, October,1810, as a sophomore, 
and left. May, 1811, intending to go to Yale. In 
this he was disappointed, and forced to give up 
all hope of a thorough college education. From 
1814-15 he studied law. During this period his 
work assumes a morbid tone, which, following 
considerable amatory verse, suggests an un- 
happy attachment. In 1815 he was admitted 
to the bar. It is interesting to observe that it 
was in this year, when he attained his majority, 
he struck the poetic note which becanie most 
characteristic with him, for he began here to 
interpret nature, and his verse shows a marked 
improvement in sincerity of tone. It was not 
until 1817 that " Thanatopsis " was published 
in the " North American Review," though 
written in his eighteenth year. Shorter poems 
followed, and in response to a request from the 
Phi Beta Kappa Society, he delivered a poem, 
" The Ages," at Harvard, 1821, published in 
the same year with other poems. It was in 
this year that he married Miss Frances Fair- 
child, at Great Barrington. In 1825 he went to 
New York, and, abandoning the law, devoted 
himself to literature. After a rather depress- 
ing service on the staff of a literary review, he 
became assistant editor of the " Evening Post." 
Later, in 1828, he became editor in chief, a po- 
sition he held for fifty yearS; until his death. 
During his connection with the " Post," he took 



many trips abroad and into the East, described 
in letters to the paper, and afterward published 
in book-form : " Letters of a Traveller," 1852 : 
" Letters from Spain and Other Countries, 
1859; "Letters from the East," 1869. "The 
Fountain and Other Poems " appeared in 1842 ; 
_" The White-Footed Deer, and Other Poems," 
in 1844. Editions of his "Poems" were pub- 
lished in 1832, 1846, 1855, and 1876. " Orations 
and Addresses " appeared in 1873 ; " Thirty 
Poems" in 1864; blank verse translations of 
the "Iliad" and _" Odyssey " in 1870-72. A 
comprehensive edition of " The Poetical Works 
and Prose Works of William Cullen Bryant," 
edited by Parke Godwin, was published in 1884. 
Mr. Bryant was often called " the first citizen of 
the republic," and his death, from sunstroke 
and a fall, was regarded by all classes as a 
national calamity. Cp. "Poets of America," 
chap, iii., and " Nature and Elements of 
Poetry," p. 252. [b. D. l.] 

BUCK, Richard Henry, song-writer, b. 
Philadelphia, Penn., 1869. Educated in the 
public schools of that city. In 1896 he became 
associated with Professor Geibel, the composer, 
who wrote the music to "Kentucky Babe," a 
good example of the modern " coon song." 
Mr. Buck's verse will soon be collected in book- 
form. 

BUCKHAM, James, b. Burlington, Vt., 
1858. Author of " The Heart of Life," 1897. 

BULL, Lucy Catlin. — See L. C. B, 
Mobinson. 

BUNNER, Alice (Learned), b. New 
London, Conn., 186-. A sister of Walter 
Learned, and wife of the late Henry Cuyler 
Bunner, whom she married in 1880. Mrs. 
Bunner contributes poems and sketches to the 
periodicals. 

BUNNER, Henry Cuyler, journalist, b. 
Oswego, N. Y., 3 Aug., 1855 ;_d. Nutley, N. J., 
11 May, 1896. Entered a business firm in New 
York, and was afterwards a reporter. He be- 
came assistant-editor of " Puck " in 1887 . a nd 
some years later its editorial chief. Well 
known as a writer of fiction and verse, whose 
early death was deplored. Author of "A 
Woman of Honor," 1883 ; "Airs from Arcady 
and Elsewhere," poems, 1884 ; " The Midge," 
1886 ; " The Story of a New York Hoxise," 1887 ; 
" Zadoc Pine, and Other Stories," 1891 ; " Ro- 
wen," verse, 1892 ; Jersey Street and Jersey 
Lane," 1896. A collection of his poems was 
edited by Brander Matthews and published in 
1896. 

" BURROUGHS, ELLEN." —See Sophia 
Jeivett. 

BURROUGHS, John, essayist, b. Rox- 
bury, N. Y., 3 April, 1837. _ A close student of 
nature, notably of bird-life in the northern sea- 
board States. He grew up on his father's farm, 
and received a common-school education. Was 
in the Treasiiry Department at Washington, 
1863-72. In 1874 he removed to the fruit-farm, 
stiU his home, at West Park, N. Y. In some 



784 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



respects a pupil of Emerson, and for years the 
most eifective and high-minded eulogist of his 
friend Walt Whitman, his habit of thought 
is original, and he is recognized as a naturalist- 
philosopher, whose writings have wholesome 
sentiment and poetic charm. He has pub- 
lished "Notes on Walt Whitman as Poet and 
Person," 1867 ; " Wake Robin," 1871 ; " Winter 
Sunshine," 1875 ; " Birds and Poets," 1877 ; 
" Locusts and Wild Honey," 1879 ; " Pepacton," 
1881 ; " Fresh Fields," 1884 ; " Signs and Sea- 
sons," 1886; " Indoor Studies," 1889 ; "Walt 
Whitman, a Study," 1897; "The Light of 
Day," 1900; "Squirrels and Other Fur-Bear- 
ers," 1900; "Birds and Bees," 1886, with an 
Introduction by Mary E. Burt, who also edited, 
from essays previously published by Mr. Bur- 
roughs, " Little Nature Studies," 1895. 

BURTON, Richard, educator, b. Hartford, 
Conn., 1859. Graduated at Trinity, 1883, and 
Johns Hopkins, 1887. He was literary editor 
of the Hartford "Courant," 1890-97, and in 
1898 was made professor of English literature 
at the University of Minnesota. His books of 
verse are "Dumb in June, and Other Poems," 
1895; "Memorial Day, and Other Poems," 
1897 ; " Lyrics of Brotherhood," 1900. 

BUSHNELLjFrancesIiOuisa, b. Hartford, 
Conn., 1834; d. 1899. A daughter of Horace 
Bushnell, the eminent divine. She has con- 
tributed thoughtful and refined verse to " The 
Atlantic Monthly " and other magazines. 

BUTLER, 'William Allen, son of Benja- 
min F. Butler, b. Albany, N. Y., 1825. Grad- 
uated at the University of New York, 1843. 
For many years a distinguished member of the 
New York bar. His society poem, " Nothing 
to Wear," published anonymously in " Harper's 
Weekly," 1857, and afterwards in book form, 
took the town, and gave him a wide reputation. 
He has written other successful satires ; " Do- 
mes ticus," a story ; besides legal and biographi- 
cal works. _ His poems were collected in 1871, 
and again in 1899. 

BUTTERWORTH, Hezekiah, editor and 
balladist, b. Warren, R. I., 1839. Connected 
with the "Youth's Companion," Boston, since 
1871. Author of the series " Ziz-zag Journeys," 
for children, 1876-90 ; " Poems for Christmas, 
Easter, and New Year's," 1883 ; " Poems and 
Ballads upon Important Episodes in American 
History" 1887; "The Wampum Belt, or the 
Fairest Page of History," 1896. 

BUTTS, Mary Frances (Barber), b. 
Hopkinton, R. L, 1S3-. Married in 1865. Has 
done much .iournalistic work, and has written 
many books for children. — "A Fence of 
Trust," verse, 1898. 

CABLE, George "Washington, novelist 
and humanitarian, b. New Orleans, La., 1844. 
This distinguished romancer, whose exquisite 
and most poetic stories of life in the French 
quarter of his native city, and of plantation life 
in_ Louisiana, gave him his first fame, has 
printed little, as yet, in verse-form. 



CARLBTON", "Will, b. Hudson, Mich., 
1845. He was educated at Hillsdale College, 
Mich., and engaged in journalism in Chicago, 
but finally removed to Brooklyn, N. Y. A 
successful lecturer, and reader of his own bal- 
lads. He has issued " Poems," 1871 ; " Farm 
Ballads," 1873; "Farm Legends," 1875; "Farm 
Festivals," 1881 ; " City Ballads," 1885 ; " City 
Legends," 1889; "City Festivals," 1892; 
"Rhymes of our Planet ; " "The Old Infant, 
and Similar Stories," 1896. 

CARPENTER, Amelia "Walstien (Jells), 
b. Stephentown, N. Y., 1840. She was married, 
when eighteen, to Mr. Cromwell Carpenter, 
with whom she removed to Kalamazoo and St. 
Louis, returning, after his death, to her native 
town. She has contributed her poems and 
stories to " The Springfield Republican," " The 
Christian Union," " Lippincott's Magazine," 
and other periodicals. 

CARPENTER, Henry Bernard, b. Dub- 
lin, Ireland, 1840; d. Sorrento, Me., 1890. 
Having graduated at Oxford, he took orders in 
the Church, and was chaplain to the Earl of 
Belmore. He came to America in 1874, and 
was pastor of the Hollis Street Unitarian 
Church, in Boston, Mass., from 1878 to 1887. 
Author of "Liber Amoris," 1886; and of a 
posthumous collection, " A Poet's Last Songs," 
with a memoir by J. J. Roche. 

CARRYL, Charles Edward, b. New York, 
N. Y., 1841. Mr. Carryl has long been a suc- 
cessful member of the N. Y. Stock Exchange, 
while closely associated with the literary and 
artistic life of the metropolis, and devoting 
much time to bookish pursitits. Author of the 
delicately fanciful dream-stories " Davy and 
the Goblin," 1885, and "The Admiral's Cara- 
van," 1892 ; and of " The River Syndicate, and 
Other Stories," 1899. 

CARRYL, Guy "Wetmore, b. New York, 
N. Y., 1873. Son of Charles E. Carryl. He 
was educated at Colum^bia, and has taken liter- 
ature as a profession. Engaged in various 
editorial duties until he became the Paris re- 
presentative of Harper and Brothers. Author 
of many poems and other contributions to the 
periodicals, and of the unique "Fables for the 
Frivolous," 1898. 

CARY, Alice, b. Miami "Valley, near Cin- 
cinnati, 0., 1820 ; d. New York, N. Y., 1871. She 
came to New York with her sister in 1852, 
where their weekly receptions were soon a fea- 
ture of artistic and literary life. "Poems by 
Alice and Phoebe Cary" appeared in 1850, and 
was followed by Alice's "Clovernook," two 
series of prose sketches — 1851-53 ; " Lyra, and 
Other Poems," 1853; "Pictures of Country 
Life," 1859; "Ballads, Lyrics, and Hymns," 
1866, and " The Lover's Diary," 1867. 

CARY, Phoebe, sister of Alice, b. 1824; 
d. 1871. Author of "Poems and Parodies;" 
" Poems of Faith, Hope, and Love." 

CAVAZZA, Elisabeth. — See E. J. Pullen. 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



785 



CAWEIN, Madison Julius, b. Louisville, 
Ky., 1865. Since the appearance of his first 
book, " Blooms of the Berry," 1887, Mr. Cawein 
has devoted himself to poetic composition more 
assiduously than any other American writer of 
standing. His maturer volumes are his best, 
and have been received with favor. They com- 
prise "Red Leaves and Roses," 1893; "Poems 
of Nature and Love," 1893; "Intimations of 
the Beautiful," 1894; '' The Garden of Dreams," 
1896; " Idyllic Monologues," 1898 ; "Myth and 
Romance," 1899. 

CHADWICK, John White, b. Marble- 
head, Mass., 1840. A graduate of the Harvard 
Divinity School. He is pastor of the Liberal 
Second Unitarian Society of Brooklyn, N. Y., 
and a iustly noted preacher. Some of the best 
critical and biographical papers in "The Na- 
tion" have been from his pen. His sermons, 
which have been printed in successive series for 
many years, constitute a noble body of ethical 
literature. Mr. Chadwiek is the author of " A 
Book of Poems," 1876; "Thomas Paine, the 
Method and Value of His Religious Teaching," 
1877; "In Nazareth Town, a Christmas Fan- 
tasy, and Other Poems," 1883; " A Legend of 
Good Poets," 1885; " A Few Verses," 1900; 
and other scholarly works in prose. 

CHAMBERS, Robert WiUiam, artist and 
novelist, b. Brooklyn, N. Y., 1865. Studied at 
the Ecole des Beaux Arts, Paris. Returned to 
New York in 1893. His first novel, "In the 
Quarter," 1894, was followed by "The King 
in Yellow," 1895 ; " The Red Republic," 1895 ; 
"Ashes of Empire," 1899. " With the Band," 
1896, is a collection of military poems. 

CHANLER, Amelie (Rives). — See Frin- 
cess Trouhetskoy. 

CHANNING, Grace Ellery.— See Mrs. 
Ckanning- Stetson. 

CHANNING-STETSOlSr, Grace Ellery, 
b. Providence, R. I., 186-. Daughter of Dr. 
William Francis Channing, the distinguished 
savant ; and granddaughter of Channing, the 
divine. Since 1884 a resident of Southern Cali- 
fornia and at times of Italy. In 1894 she was 
married to the artist, Charles Walter Stetson, 
of Providence. Mrs. Stetson's published works 
are " Dr. Channing's Note Book," 1887 ; " The 
Sister of a Saint," 1895; "Sea Drift," verse, 
1899 ; " The Fortune of a Day," 1900. 

CHANN-ING, WiUiam EUery, 2d, poet 
and essayist, b. Boston, Mass., 1818. Nephew 
of the great Unitarian divine. Studied at 
Harvard, but did not take a degree. Married 
a sister of Margaret Fuller Ossoli. Engaged in 
editorial work at New York City and New 
Bedford, Mass. Went to reside at Concord, 
Mass., in 1842. Author of " Poems," 1843 and 
1847 ; " The Woodman," 1849 ; " Near Home," 
1858 ; " The Wanderer," 1872 ; " Conversations 
in Rome," 1847; and " Thoreau : the Poet- 
Naturalist " (prose), 1873. A true poet, though 
selected for criticism by Poe as a typical ex- 
emplar of the transcendental school. 



CHAPMAN, Mary Berri. — See M. B. (C.) 

Sanshrougk. 

CHENEY, John Vance, librarian, b. 
Groveland, N. Y., 1848. Son of the musician 
and author Simeon P. Cheney. He was ad- 
mitted to the Massachusetts bar, and practised 
law in New York City. In 1887 he took 
charge of the Free Public Library, San Fran- 
cisco, Cal., and is now librarian of the New- 
berry Library, Chicago, 111. He has written 
" The Old Doctor," prose, 1881 ; " Thistle- 
Drift," poems, 1887 ; "Wood-Blooms," poems, 
1888; "The Golden Guess," essays, 1892; 
"Ninette, a Redwoods Idyl," 1894; "Queen 
Helen, and Other Poems," 1895. and " That 
Dome in Air," essays, 1895; Out of the 
Silence," poems, 1897. Editor of "Wood 
Notes Wild," by Simeon Pease Cheney, 1892. 
Mr. Cheney's poem on p. 586 won the first prize 
in the competition for a rejoinder to Edwin 
Markham's^' The Man with the Hoe," 1900. 

CHILD, Lydia Maria (Francis), b. Med- 
ford, Mass., 1802 ; d. Wayland, Mass., 1880. 
Her first novel, " Hobomok," appeared in 1821. 
" An Appeal for that Class of Americans called 
Africans," 1833, was the first Abolitionist vol- 
ume published in the United States. With her 
husband, David L. Child, she edited the "Na- 
tional Anti-Slavery Standard " from 1840 to 
1844. She published many works of fiction and 
general literature. 

CLARK, Willis Gaylord, journalist, b. 
Otisco, N. Y., 1810; d. Philadelphia, Penn., 
1841. When about twenty years old engaged 
in newspaper work, and became owner and 
editor of " The Philadelphia Gazette." Was a 
contributor to his twin brother's " Knicker- 
bocker Magazine,'' New York. After his death 
the brother, Lewis Gaylord Clark, edited his 
"Literary Remains," 1844, and his complete 
poems, 1847. 

CLARKE, Ednah Proctor. — See E. P. 
(C) Hayes. 

CLARKE, Joseph Ignatius Constantine, 
editor and playwright, b. Kingstown, Ireland, 
1846. In 1868 he came to America, where he 
has since resided. Two years later he joined 
the editorial staff of the N. Y. " Herald," and 
continued in its service until 1883, when he be- 
came managing editor of the N. Y. " Journal." 
Since 1898 Mr. Clarke has been the editor of 
the " Criterion." Author of " Robert Emmet," 
a tragedy, 1888; "Malmorda, a Metrical Ro- 
mance," 1893, and of various plays. 

CLOUD, Virginia Woodward, b. Balti- 
more, Md., 186-. A favorite contributor to 
select periodicals. 

CLYMER, Ella Maria (Dietz). — See E. 
M. D. Glynes. 

COAN, Titus Munson, physician, b. Hilo, 
Hawaiian Islands, 1836 ; educated in Honolulu 
at the Royal and Punahou schools. He gradu- 
ated at Williams College, 1859, and in medicine 
in New York City, at the College of Physicians 



786 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



and Surgeons, Served as assistant surgeon in 
the IJ. S. army, and under Admiral Farragut in 
the West Gulf squadron, 1863-65. Subsequently 
took up literature as a profession. Established 
the New York Bureau of Revision in 1880. Au- 
thor of many articles and poems in the maga- 
zines, and of "Ounces of Prevention," 1885. 

COATES, Florence (Earle), b. Philadel- 
phia, Penn., 185-. A granddaughter of Thomas 
Earle, the philanthropist. She received her 
education at the Convent of the Sacred Heart 
in Paris, and at Brussels. She was married, in 
1879, to Edward H. Coates, president of the 
Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts. Mrs. 
Coates was elected president of the Browning 
Society of Philadelphia in 189-. Her ' ' Poems ' ' 
were collected in 1898. 

COCKE, ZiteUa, b. Perry Co., Ala., 186- 
She is of English and Huguenot descent, and 
grew up on a plantation. Of late a resident 
of Boston, Mass, Her first literary ventures 
were translations from the French and Ger- 
man. Author of " A Doric Reed," 1895. 

COLES, Abraham, LL. D., physician, b. 
Scotch Plains, N. J., 1813; d. Monterey, Cal., 
1891. Graduated at Jefferson Med. Coll., 
Phila., 1835. He published " Dies Irse, in 
Thirteen Original Versions," 1859; "Old Gems 
in New Settings," 1866; "The Microcosm," 
1866; "Latin Hymns," 1868; "The Evangel 
of Verse," 1874; "The Light of the World," 
1884. — Cp. " Poets of America," p. 300. 

COLLYER, Robert, clergyman, b. Keigh- 
ley, Yorkshire, England, 1823. He learned the 
blacksmith's trade, and in 1850 came to Amer- 
ica. For some years, without abandoning his 
trade, he had followed the calling of a Meth- 
odist minister, but in 1859 he founded a Unita- 
rian church in Chicago. In 1879 he became 
pastor of the Church of the Messiah in New 
York, and finally pastor emeritus. The beau- 
tiful ballad "Under the Snow" is perhaps his 
best-known poem.. 

COLLYER, Thomas Stephens, b. New 
York, N. Y., 1842; d. New London, Conn., 
1893. He served in the U. S. navy during the 
Civil War ; became boatswain, 1866, and was 
placed on the retired list in 1883 ; aifter which 
he made his home in New London, Conn. He 
wrote "Song Spray," poems, 1889. 

COLTON, Arthur Willis, b. Washington, 
Conn., 1868. Graduated at Yale, where he re- 
ceived the degree of Ph. D. in 1893, and taught 
English in the academic department for two 
years. A resident of his native town, and a 
contributor to the magazines. 

GONE, Helen Gray, educator, b. New 
York, N. Y., 1859. Graduated at the Normal 
College of New York, where she was appointed 
instructor in English literature. Two volumes 
of her poems have appeared: "Oberon and 
Puck: Verses Grave and Gay," 1885; "The 
Ride to the Lady, and Other Poems," 1891. 
Miss Cone assisted Miss Jeannette L. Gilder in 
editing " Pen Portraits of Literary Women." 



From the first she has displayed the traits of a 
true poet, and of an artist too genuine to seek 
attention by devices. Her verse, always wc 
manly, is often notable for strength, and for a 
certain elevation of thought and feeling. 

CONWAY, Katherine Eleanor, b. Roches- 
ter, N. Y., 1853, A member of the editorial 
staff of the Boston "Pilot" since 1883. Miss 
Conway is the editor of " Watchwords from 
John Boyle O'Reilly," 1891, and is the author 
of "Songs of the Sunrise Slope," 1881; "A 
Dream of Lilies," verse, 1893; "A Lady and 
Her Letters," 1895; "Making Friends and 
Keeping Them," 1895. 

COOK, Clarence Chatham, art-critic, b. 
Dorchester, Mass., 1828; d. 1900. He edited 
" The Studio " of New York, and has published 
" The Central Park," 1868 ; " The House Beau- 
tiful : Essays on Beds and Tables, Stools and 
Candlesticks," 1877. 

COOKE, John Esten, b. Winchester, Va., 
1830; d. near Boyce, Va., 1886. Brother of 
Philip Pendleton Cooke. He gave up the prac- 
tice of law for literary work. His best-known 
tale, " The Virginian Comedians," 1854, was 
followed by other Virginian romances of colo- 
nial life, or relating to the Civil War, in which 
he served as a Confederate soldier. He wrote 
a life of Stonewall Jackson, 1863, and of Robert 
E. Lee, 1871 ; "Virginia, a History of the Peo- 
ple," 1883, and numerous poems. 

COOKE, Philip Pendleton, lawyer, b. Mar- 
tinsburg, Va., 1816; d. near Boyce, Va., 1850. 
Entered Princeton at the age of fifteen, where 
he was specially distinguished for his love of 
outdoor sports. Wrote for the " Knickerbocker 
Magazine," when seventeen years old. Was 
admitted to the bar at Winchester, Va. His 
best-known lyric is " Florence Vane." Author 
of " Froissart Ballads, and Other Poems," 1847. 

COOKE, Rose (Terry), b. West Hartford, 
Conn., 17 Feb., 1827; d. Pittsfield, Mass., 18 
July, 1892. She lived at Hartford during the 
first half of her life, where she attended the 
Hartford Female Seminary. After her marriage 
to Rollin H. Cooke, in 1873, her home was at 
Winsted, in the same State. Her last years were 
spent in Pittsfield, Mass. "Poems by Rose 
Terry," 1860, attracted general attention to her 
literary talent, and she also gained reputation 
as a writer of notable short stories of New Eng- 
land life. The latter were published in four 
volumes. "Poems," a collective edition, ap- 
peared in 1888. 

COOLBRITH, Ina Donna, b. near Spring- 
field, lU., 184-. After a long residence in Los 
Angeles she removed to San Francisco, and in 
1874 became librarian of the Oakland free 
library. She is a frequent contributor to maga- 
zines, and has published "A Perfect Day, and 
Other Poems," 1881, and "Songs of theGolden 
Gate," 1895. The last-named collection has 
met with just praise at home and abroad. 

" COOLIDGE, Susan."— See Sarah Cham- 
cey Woolsey. 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



787 



COOPER, George, song-writer, b. New 
York, N. Y., 1840. A contributor of songs to 
juvenile and other magazines. A resident of 
West Hoboken, N. J. 

COOPER, James Fenimore, b. Burling- 
ton, N. J., 15 Sept., 1789 ; d. Cooperstown, 
N. Y., 14 Sept., 1851. _ Studied at Yale and 
served as midshipman in U. S. navy, 1808-11. 
The first book of perhaps the most American of 
our novelists appeared in 1820. The few songs 
scattered through his works are usually put in 
the mouths of his characters. " My Brigantine ' ' 
is given in " The Water-Witch," 1830. 

CORTISSOZ, Ellen Maekay Hutchinson, 
b. Caledonia, N. Y., 18 — , She obtained a posi- 
tion, at an early age, in the office of the N. Y. 
"Tribune," soon becoming a member of its 
editorial staff. To her care and taste the liter- 
ary department of that journal's Sunday supple- 
ment has owed its repute. Her husband is 
Royal Cortissoz, the author and art-critic, also 
of the " Tribune " staff. In 1881 Mrs. Cortissoz, 
then Miss Hutchinson, collected some of her 
verse in a little volume, "Songs and Lyrics," 
remarkable for the exquisite beauty, in feeling 
and lyrical charm, of almost every poem which 
it contained. In her lyrics and ballads, tinged 
with old colonial and eighteenth-century effects, 
she has had more than one follower but no 
equal. She edited, with E. C. Stedman, " A 
Library of American Literature," in 11 vols., 
1888-89. 

COXE, Arthur Cleveland, Episcopal bishop 
of Western New York, b. Mendham, N. J., 
1818 ; d. Clifton Springs, N. Y., 1896. He was 
g^raduated at the University of New York ; 
was rector of St. John's Church, Hartford, 
Calvary Church, New York City, and Grace 
Church, Baltimore. He became assistant 
bishop in 1863, and bishop two years lateiT. 
Among his many works in verse and prose are : 
"Christian Ballads," perhaps his best-known 
volume, 1840 ; " Athanasion, and Other Poems," 
1842; "Saul, a Mystery, and Other Poems," 
1845; "Hallowe'en, a Romatint, with Lays 
Meditative and Devotional," 1869 ; " The Ladye 
Chace," 1878; "Institutes of Christian His- 
tory," 1887. 

CRANCH, Christopher Pearse, artist, b. 
Alexandria, Va., 1813 ; d. Cambridge, Mass., 
18^2. Was an ordained Unitarian minister, but 
soon abandoned the clerical profession and de- 
voted himself to painting. Connected with tlie 
New England " Transcendentalists " as a writer 
for " The Dial," 1840-43. Resided in Europe, 
1846-63. Spent the later years of his life at 
Cambridge, Mass. Author of "Poems," 1844; 
"The ^neid in English Blank Verse," 1872; 
"The Bird and the Bell," 1875; "Ariel and 
Caliban, with Other Poems," 1887. 

CRANDALL, Charles Henry, journalist, 
b. Greenwich, N. Y., 1858. A resident^ of 
Springdale. Conn., where he devotes his time 
to literature. Author of two volumes of verse, 
"Wayside Music," 1893, and "The Chords of 



Life," 1898, and editor of " Representative Son- 
nets," 1890. 

CRANE, Elizabeth Green, b. New York, 
N. Y., 18 — . With the exception of occasional 
trips abroad. Miss Crane has lived in the country 
since her childhood. Her first book was an his- 
toric drama, " Berquin," 1897. It has been fol- 
lowed by a volume of poems, " Sylva," 1900. 

CRANE, Stephen, b. Newark, N. J., 1871 ; 
d. Baden Weiler, Germany, 1900. Studied at 
Lafayette College, was occupied for some years 
with newspaper work, and was correspondent 
for a New York paper in the Grseco-Turkish 
war of 1897, and in Cuba, 1898. Removed to a 
suburb of London, England, 1898. Author of 
"The Black Riders, and Other Lines," verse, 
1895 ; " War is Kind," verse, 1899 ; and of sev- 
eral volumes of fiction, including " The Red 
Badge of Courage," 1896 ; "The Little Regi- 
ment," 1897 ; " The Third Violet," 1899, etc. 

CROFPUT, William Augustus, journalist, 
b. Redding, Conn., 1836. Entered journalism in 
1858. He has pubhshed several prose volumes 
as well as " Bourbon Ballads," 1880, and " The 
Prophecy, and Other Poems," 1896. 

CROSBY, Ernest Howard, humanitarian, 
b. New York, N. Y., 1856. Graduated from 
the University of New York and the Columbia 
College Law School. He was appointed judge 
of the international court of Alexandria, Egypt, 
in 1889 ; resigned in 1894. On his way back to 
America he visited Count Tolstoi, and since has 
g:iven up the law to devote his attention to social 
reform. He was first president of the New York 
Social Reform Club. Author of two volumes of 
verse: "War Echoes," 1898; "Plain Talk in 
Psalm and Parable," 1899. 

CRQSWELL, "William, b. Hudson, N. Y., 
1804 ; d. Boston, Mass., 1851. He graduated at 
Yale, and was the first rector of the Church of 
the Advent, Boston. His first poem appeared 
in " The Episcopal Watchman," which he ed- 
ited at Hartford, with Mr. Doane, afterwards 
bishop of New Jersey. Much of his verse is 
found in Arthur Cleveland Coxe's compilation, 
" Poems Sacred and Secular," 1859. 

CURTIS, George "William, man of letters, 
orator, and a leader in social and political re- 
form, b. Providence, R. I., 24 Feb., 1824 ; d. 
Staten Island, N. Y., 31 Aug., 1892. From his 
youth, when at eighteen he became a member 
of the Community at Brook Farm, until his 
death after years of service in every good and 
perfect work, he was a practical idealist, and 
the typical American exemplar of " sweetness 
and light." His earlier prose writings were 
" Nile Notes of aHowadji," 1851 : " The Poti- 
phar Papers," 1853 ; " Prue and I,'* 1856. Their 
pages were charged with poetic sentiment. 
One of his very infrequent pieces in verse- 
form is given in this Anthology. A condensed 
but admirable biography of Curtis, by Edward 
Cary, constitutes a volume of the " American 
Men of Letters " series. 

CUTLER, Elbridge Jefferson,b. HoUiston, 



788 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



Mass., 1831; d. Cambridge, Mass., 1870. Pro- 
fessor of modern languages at Harvard, 1865- 
70. Author of " War Poems," 1867 ; " SteUa," 
1868. 

DALLAS, Mary (Kyle), b. Philadelphia, 
Penn., 18— ; d. New York, N. Y., 1897. A 
contributor, for many years, of fiction and verse 
to family story papers. Some of her novels 
were published in book-form. Her poem, 
" Brave Love," has been set to music by Harry 
Pepper, 

DALY, Eugene Howell, Columbia Uni- 
versity, Class of 1894. 

DANA, Richard Henry, poet, critic, and 
essayist, b. Cambridge, Mass., 15 Aug., 1787 ; 
d. Boston, Mass., 2 Feb., 1879. After leaving 
Harvard College, without graduation, on ac- 
count of being involved in the students' rebel- 
lion of 1807, he entered upon the study of law, 
and was admitted to the bar of Boston in 1811. 
He was active in politics as a Federalist, and 
was elected to the Massachusetts les;islature. 
As a journalist he is conspicuous for his connec- 
tion with the " North American Review," of 
which he was associate editor with Edward 
Tyrrel Channing (1818-1820). He began the 
publication at New York of the " Idle 
Man," a literary periodical, to which Bryant, 
Allston, and others contributed, but which 
reached only six numbers. Dana's first volume 
of "Poems," containing "The Buccaneer," ap- 
peared in 1833. His lectures on Shakespeare, 
delivered in several Eastern cities, are repre- 
sentative, and he was the first eminent Ameri- 
can to appreciate the beauties of Wordsworth. 
A collective edition of his " Poems and Prose 
Writings " was brought out in Boston in 1833 
(enlarged edition 1850). 

DAWDRIDGE, Danske (Bedinger), b. 
Copenhagen, Denmark, 186-. Greatgrand- 
daughter of Eliza Southgate Bowne. In 1877 
she married Stephen Dandridge. Her pub- 
lished works are " Joy, and Other Poems," 
1888, and " Rose Brake," 1890. She has in 
preparation a book to be entitled ' ' The Heroes 
of La Vendue," and a collective edition of her 
poems. 

DAVIDSON, Margaret GiLman (George), 
b. Columbia, Mo., 1869 ; d. Lewistown, 111., 1897. 
She was married, in 1895, to W. T. Davidson, a 
journalist, who has in view a memorial collec- 
tion of her poems. 

DA'WES, Rufus, lawyer, b. Boston, Mass., 
1803 ; d. Washington, D. C, 1859. Author of 
"The Valley of the Nashaway, and Other 
Poems," 1830; "Geraldine," 1839; "Miscel- 
laneous Poems," 1839; "Nixie's Mate," 
"Story," 1840. 

DAWSON, Daniel Lewis, b. Lewistown, 
Penn., 1855 ; d. Philadelphia, Penn., 1893. He 
attended La Salle College, but completed the 
college course under private tuition. At one 
time he went through professional training in 
athletics and figured as a pugilist. Was an 



iron-fojinder at the time of his death. A post- 
humoujs collection of his poems, " The Seeker 
of the Marshes, and Other Poems," appeared in 
1893. 

DAY, Richard Edwin, b. Granby, N. Y., 
1852. Graduated at Syracuse University, and 
taught at various schools. Was associate edi- 
tor of the Syracuse "Standard," 1880-98. — 
" Lines in the Sand," 1878 ; " Thor: a Drama," 
1880; "Lyrics and Satires," 1883; "Poems," 
1888. 

DAY, Thomas Fleming, b. Weston-Super- 
Mare, Somersetshire, England, 1861. Came to 
the United States in 1868. Son of Edward H. 
Day, professor of natural science at Normal 
College, New York City. Editor of a yachting 
monthly at New York, "The Rudder," since 
1895. Author of " Songs of Sea and Sail," 
1899. 

DE KAY, Charles, art-critic, b. Washing- 
ton, D. C, 1848. Grandson of Joseph Rodman 
Drake. He was graduated at Yale, and in 1877 
joined the staff of the New York "Times," 
His works include "The Bohemian," 1878; 
"Hesperus, and Other Poems," 1880; "The 
Vision of Nimrod," 1881 ; " The Love Poems of 
Louis Barnaval," 1883 ; " Barye, Life and 
Works," 1889 ; " The Family Life of Heinrich 
Heine," translation, 1892 ; " Bird Gods of An- 
cient Europe," 1898. Mr. De Kay was the pro- 
jector of " The Authors Club," New York, and 
U. S. Consul General, Berlin, 1894-97. 

DELAND, Margaret. — See M. W. C. De- 
land. 

DELAND, Margaretta "Wade (CampbeU) 
(Margaret Deland),b. Allegheny, Penn., 1857. 
She was married, in 1880, to Lorin F. Deland, 
of Boston. Mass., which city became her resi- 
dence. Among her writings are : " The Old 
Garden, and Other Verses," 1886, and "John 
Ward, Preacher," 1888. The latter is a novel 
which deals with theological questions, and 
which brought wide reputation to its author. 

DENNEN, Grace Atherton, educator, b. 
Woburn, Mass., 18 — , Graduated at Smith Col- 
lege. Removed to California, 1894, and en- 
gaged in teaching and literary work. Is a tutor 
in the English department of Leland Stanford, 
Jr., University. Edited " The Ebell," 1898, 

DE VERE, Mary Ainge, "Madeline 
Bridges," b. Brooklyn, N, Y., 184- She has 
always lived in Brooklsm, devoting herself to 
literature, and making frequent contributions 
to the " Galaxy," " Century," " Independent," 
"Life," and many other periodicals. Author 
of " Love Songs, and Other Poems," 1870 ; 
"Poems," 1890, 

DEWEY, George Washington, b. Balti- 
more, Md., 1818 ; d. Philadelphia, Penn., 1860. 
His father was a painter from Westfield, Mass, 
The son lived in Philadelphia, where he fol- 
lowed the occupation of an accountant, and 
afterwards that of a merchant. His poems, 
essays, and reviews were never collected in 



•BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



789 



book-form. Mr. Dewey held an official posi- 
tion in The Art Union of Philadelphia. 

DICKINSON, Charles Monroe, b. Low- 
ville, N. Y., 1842, He wasadmitted to the New 
York bar, 1865, and practised law in Bingham- 
ton and New York City. In 1878 he became 
editor and owner of the Binghamton " Republi- 
can." Published "The Children, and Other 
Verses," 1889. 

DICKINSON", Emily, b. Amherst, Mass., 
1830 ; d. there, 1886. Her father, Hon. Edward 
Dickinson, was treasurer of Amherst College. 
Her life for the most part was spent in close 
seclusion, and it was only under protest that a 
few of her poems were printed during her life- 
time. In 1862 she was moved to write to Col. 
Thomas W. Higginson, enclosing four pieces, 
and seeking his criticism and advice. This led 
to a correspondence of many years, and to the 
posthumous volume, " Poems by Emily Dick- 
inson, Edited by Two of Her Friends, Mabel 
Loomis Todd and T. W. Higginson," 1890. In 
later volumes more of her pieces were given to 
the world. Her letters, 1847-1886, have been 
edited by Mrs. M. L. Todd. 

DICKINSON, Martha Gilbert, niece of 
Emily Dickinson, b. at Amherst, Mass., 18 — 
of Puritan stock. Since 1892 her poems have 
appeared in various periodicals. The first col- 
lection of her verse, " Within the Hedge," 
1899, has been favorably received. 

DINNIES, Anna Peyre (Shackelford), b. 
Pineville, S. C, 1805 ; d. New Orleans, La., 
1886. Was a resident of St. Louis and New 
Orleans. In 1847 she published one hiindred 
poems under the title. The Floral Year." 

DOANE, George "Washington, Episcopal 
bishop, b. Trenton, N. J., 1799 ; d. Burlington, 
N. J., 1859. Graduated at Union College. He 
became bishop of New Jersey in 1832. Some 
of his hymns are standard favorites. His 
" Life and Writings," edited by his son, ap- 
peared in 1860. 

DOANE, William Croswell, Episcopal 
bishop, b. Boston, Mass., 1832. _ Son of the 
preceding. He graduated at Burlington (N. J.) 
College, and entered the Episcopal ministry 
in 1853. In 1869 he was made bishop of 
Albany, N. Y. He is the author of several 
theological works and of much devotional 
verse. 

DODGE, Mary Barker (Carter), b. Bridge- 
water, Penn., 184-. She was educated in Phila- 
delphia, and married, 1850, to Charles F. Dodge, 
after which she lived in Williamsport, Mass., 
and elsewhere. She has published: "Belfry 
Voices," 1870 ; " The Gray Masque, and Other 
Poems," 1885, 

DODGE, Mary Elizabeth (Mapes), b. 
New York, N. Y., 1838. Daughter of Professor 
James J. Mapes. After the death of her hus- 
band, William Dodge, she wrote for the N. Y. 
"Hearth and Home," of which she and Don- 
ald G. Mitchell were the editors. " St. Nicho- 



las," the successful juvenile magazine, has been 
under her editorial management since it was 
founded, in 1873. Her works include " Irving- 
ton Stories," for children, 1864 ; " Hans Brin- 
ker, or the Silver Skates," 1865, crowned by 
the French Academy and translated into the 
principal languages of Europe; "A Few 
Friends, and How They Amused Themselves," 
1869 ; " Rhymes and Jingles," 1874 ; " Theo- 
philus and Others," 1876; "Along the Way," 
poems, 1879 ; " Donald and Dorothy," 1883 ; 
'When Life is Young," poems for young 
people, 1894 ; " The Land of Pluck," 1894. 

DOLE, Nathan Haskell, man of letters, 
b. Chelsea, Mass., 1852. Graduating at Har- 
vard, 1874, he was preceptor of Derby Academy, 
Hingham, Mass., 1876-78, and since has been 
engaged in scholarly work. At one time a 
critic on the Philadelphia " Press," and after- 
wards editor of the N. Y. "Epoch." Has 
been active as a translator, and is now editing 
a twenty-volume edition of Tolstoi's works. In 
1896 he edited a multivariorum edition of the 
"Rub^iyd,t of Omar Khayydm." Author of 
several novels and a volume of verse, " The 
Hawthorne Tree, and Other Poems," 1895. 

DOEGAN, John Aylmer, lawyer, b. Phila- 
delphia, 1836 ; d. there, 1867. He published a 
volume of verse, "Studies," 1862, twice re- 
issued. His premature death, by consumption, 
was much lamented. 

DORR, Julia Caroline (Ripley), b. 
Charleston, S. C, 1825. Her family removed 
to New York, where she was married, in 1847, 
to the Hon. Seneca R. Dorr of Rutland, Vt., 
which city became her residence. She is the 
author of " Poems," 1871 (complete edition, 
1892); "Friar Anselmo, and Other Poems," 
1879; "Daybreak, an Easter Poem," 1882; 
and "Afternoon Songs," 1885; "The Flower 
of England's Face," prose, 1895 ; " A Cathe- 
dral Pilgrimage," prose, 1896; "In Kings' 
Houses," novel, 1898. Mrs. Dorr holds a dis- 
tinguished and enviable position among Ameri- 
can women. 

"DOUGLAS, Marion."— See 4. D. (G.) 
Sobinson. 

DRAKE, Joseph Rodman, b. New York, 
N. Y., 17 Aug., 1795 ; d. there, 21 Sept., 1820. 
Left an orphan at an early age, Drake had a hard 
struggle with poverty, but obtained a good edu- 
cation, graduating in medicine in 1816. His 
marriage in the same year to the daughter of 
Henry Eckford, the marine architect, placed 
him in comfortable circumstances. He trav- 
elled with his wife in Europe in 1818. In 1819 
he went to New Orleans, hoping to benefit his 
health, but returned to die of consumption in 
New York in 1820. His first recorded poem, 
" The Mocking Bird," was written at the age 
of fourteen. " The Croakers," a series of witty 
poems appearing in the " Evening Post," — the 
first in 1819, — dealt with local celebrities and 
current events, and created much amusement 
and curiosity as to their authorship. It was 



79° 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



finally proved that Drake wrote the first three. 
Others were written separately by Halleek and 
Drake, or by the two poets in collaboration. 
These poems were collected and published in 
1860 by the Bradford Club, of New York. 
"The Culprit Fay," Drake's longest produc- 
tion, grew out of an assertion by some friends 
that American rivers were not adapted by ro- 
mantic associations for poetic use. Gen. James 
Grant Wilson says that Drake composed this 
poem, a charming example of pure fancy, and 
read it to his friends as a refutation of their 
theory. A collection of Drake's poems, con- 
taining that national classic " The American 
ilag" (of which Halleek is said to have writ- 
ten the closing quatrain) was published under 
the title, " The Culprit Fay, and Other Poems," 
by his daughter in 1836 (later editions, 1847, 
1865). 

" DBOCH." —See Bohert Bridges. 

DUER, Alice. — See A. D. Miller. 

DUER, Caroline, b. New York, N. Y., 18—, 
where she now resides. Daughter of James G. 
King Miller. Miss Duer's lyrics comprise the 
larger portion of " Poems by Caroline and Alice 
Duer," 1896, a volume that won friends by 
the grace and frequent vigor of its verse, and 
by a certain air of distinction. 

DUFFIELD, Samuel Augustus Wil- 
loughby, clergyman, b. Brooklyn, N. Y., 1843; 
d. Bloomfield, N. J., 1887. A graduate of Yale. 
Entered the Presbyterian ministry, and held a 
pastorate at Bloomfield for the greater part of 
his life. Author of a volume of poems, " Warp 
and Woof," 1870, and of "English Hymns, 
their Authors and History," 1886. 

DUNBAR, Paul Laurence, b. Dayton, 
Ohio, 1872. Of African blood. Graduated at the 
Dayton High School, and engaged in newspaper 
work. His verse soon attracted attention, and 
he has given successful readings from his poems. 
In 1899 he accepted a position in the Library of 
Congress at Washington. His maturer poems 
are to be found in "Lyrics of Lowly Life," 
1896; "Lyrics of the Hearthside," 1899. 
"Folks from Dixie," stories, 1897, and "The 
Uncalled," novel, 1898, are among his books of 
fiction. 

DURIVAGE, Francis Alexander, b. Bos- 
ton, Mass., 1814 ; d. New York, N. Y., 1881. 
Nephew of Edward Everett. A journalist and 
writer of verse and fiction. Among his books 
are " Life Scenes from the World around 
Us," 1853 ; " The Fatal Casket," 1866 ; and A 
Cyclopedia of History. The poem " Chez Bra- 
bant" is an interesting example of a poem 
that, although composed by one of the early 
American school, is qiiite in the manner of the 
latter-day verse of which Dobson's "Proverbs 
in Porcelain " is a typical example. 

DWIGHT, Timothy, educator and theo- 
logian, b. Northampton, Mass., 14 May, 1752 ; 
d_. New Haven, 11 Jan., 1817. Was a preco- 
cious child and entered Yale when but thirteen 



years old ; became a tutor there when he was 
nineteen. Licensed to preach in 1777. While 
serving as chaplain in the American army 
against Burgoyne, he wrote his famous poem, 
" Cokunbia." In 1794 he was elected president 
of Yale CoUege, and by his dignity, learning, 
and character proved himself a great educator, 
whose memory will always be revered. He 
belonged, with Trumbull, Barlow, etc., to the 
group known as "The Hartford Wits," con- 
tributing anonymous satirical prose and verse 
to the papers during the decade following the 
Revolutionary war. A posthumous edition of 
his divinity sermons was published in five vol- 
umes, " Theology, Explained and Defended," 
1818. This work has passed through many edi- 
tions in America and Europe. His metrical 
works are : " The Conquest of Canaan," 1785 ; 
"The Triumph of Infidelity," 1788 ; "Green- 
field HUl," 1794. Under the presidency of Dr. 
Dwight's grandson Timothy Dwight, in whom 
the traditions and character of the elder of the 
name have been nobly revived, Yale College 
became a university. 

EASTER, Marguerite Elizabeth. (Mil- 
ler), b. Leesburg, Va., 1839 ; d. Baltimore, 
Md., 1894. She was of German ancestry, and 
was married, in 1859, to James Washington 
Easter, a prominent Baltimore merchant. Au- 
thor of " Clytie, and Other Poems," 1891. 

EASTMAN, Barrett, journalist, b. Chi- 
cago, 111., 1869. Educated at Racine College, 
and became an editorial writer and dramatic 
critic on various Chicago and New York papers. 
Since 1898 he has been conducting a newspaper 
syndicate in New York City. His writings in- 
clude many contributions in prose and verse to 
the journals and magazines, and (with Wallace 
Rice) " Under the Star and other Songs of the 
Sea," 1898. 

EASTMAN, Charles Gamage, journalist, 
b. Fryeburg, Me., 1816 ; d. Montpelier, Vt., 
1861. A graduate of the University of Ver- 
mont. He founded the " LamoUle River Ex- 
press " at Johnson, Vt., 1838, and " The Spirit 
of the Age " at Woodstock, Vt., 1840 ; and be- 
came editor of " The Vermont Patriot," Mont- 
pelier, 1846. Member of the State Senate, 
1851-52. Author of " Poems," 1848, of which a 
revised edition was issued in 1880. 

EASTMAN, Elaine (Goodale), b. Mount 
Washington, Mass., 1863. She and her younger 
sister, Dora Read Goodale, attracted attention 
when children by the publication of several vol- 
umes of poems, some of the verse appearing as 
early as 1877. She became interested in the 
Indian schools ; was first a government teacher 
in _ Dakota, and afterwards, in 1890, was ap- 
pointed superintendent of all Indian schools in 
South Dakota. In 1891 she married Dr. Charles 
A. Eastman, a Sioux Indian. She has pub- 
lished separately "Journal of a Farmer's 
Daughter," 1881. 

EATON, Arthur Wentworth Hamilton, 
clergyman, b. Kentville, Nova Scotia, 1854. 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



791 



Graduated at Harvard. A minister of the 
Episcopal Church, and a resident of New York 
City. He has published several prose works, 
and a volume of poems, " Acadian Legends and 
Lyrics," 1889. 

EGAW, Maurice Francis, educator, b. 
Philadelphia, Penn., 1852. Graduated at La 
SaUe College. Was for some years professor of 
English literature at Notre Dame University, 
Ind., and now holds the same position at the 
Catholic University, Washington. From 1880- 
1888 he was editor of the N. Y. "Freeman's 
Journal." In verse he has written: "Pre- 
ludes," 1881; "Songs and Sonnets," 1885, en- 
larged edition, 1892. His prose volumes include, 
beside various novels, " Lectures on English 
Literature," 1889 ; " The Leoi)ard of Lancianus, 
and Other Tales," 1899. 

ELIOT, Henrietta Kobins (Mack), b. 
Amherst, Mass., 18 — . Now resident in Port- 
land, Ore. Mrs. Eliot is a writer of verse 
and short stories, and has published " Laura's 
Holidays," 1898. 

ELLIOT, George Tracy, b. Mason, N. H., 
1853. Educated at the Massachusetts Institute 
of Technology. Since 1884 he has been a cor- 
rector at the Riverside Press, Cambridge, 
Mass. 

ELLS"WOIlTH, Erastus "Wolcott, in- 
ventor, b. East Windsor, Conn., 1822. Gradu- 
ated at Amherst. Studied law, but did not 
follow the profession. Has resided chiefly at 
East Windsor HiU, where he has been occupied 
as an inventor of mechanical appliances and 
with farming. Of late years he has led a se- 
cluded life. He was a brilliant contributor to 
" Putnam's Monthly " and other magazines. A 
volume of his poems was published in 1855. 

ELL"W ANGER, 'William De Lancey, law- 
yer, b. Rochester, N. Y., 1854. Brother of the 
well-known bookman and essayist, George Her- 
man EUwanger, and like him interested in 
books and letters. His poems have appeared in 
prominent magazines. 

EMBURY, Emma Catherine (Manly), b. 
New York, N. Y., 1806 ; d. Brooklyn, N. Y., 
1863. She was married to Mr. Daniel Embury, 
of Brooklyn, in 1828. She published " Guido, 
and Other Poems," 1828 ; " Love's Token 
Flowers," verse, 1846 ; a number of stories ; 
and "Poems," issued posthumously, 1869. A 
favorite writer in the time of Griswold and Poe. 

EMERSON, Ralph Waldo, b. Boston, 
Mass., 25 May, 1803; d. Concord, Mass., 27 April, 
1882. He seems to have made little noteworthy 
impression upon his schoolmates save for 
diligent and intelligent work. After leaving 
Harvard, hi 1821, he taught school and studied 
for the ministry, being ordained 11 March, 1829, 
the same year in which he was married to Miss 
Ellen Louisa Tucker. He took an active inter- 
est in public affairs, was on the School Board, 
chosen chaplain of the State Senate, etc. In 
1832 he resigned his clerical position in the 
"Second Church." This step marks a great 



change in his life. Though he continued to 
preach, and in many different churches, he 
would never accept a call, owing to his scruples 
relating to the communion service. In 1834, 
after a trip abroad, he became a resident of 
Concord, Mass. In September, 1835, he married 
Miss Lydia Jackson, his first wife having died 
in 1832. In 1835 he began his courses of lectures 
in Boston. He continued to preach until the 
autumn of 1838 in the church at East Lexing- 
ton. In 1836 his first book appeared, a very 
small volume entitled "Nature." It made no 
immediate sensation, undoubtedly because in- 
comprehensible to the greater fraction. Car- 
lyle and men of his stamp gave it unstinted 
praise. His next publication was " The Ameri- 
can Scholar," which he delivered before the 
Phi Beta Kappa Society, at Cambridge, 1837. 
Holmes has dubbed this oration our ' ' inteUee- 
tual declaration of independence." His lectures 
and orations were continued all through his 
Hfe, and were published as noted below. In 
1841 "Brook Farm" was organized. Emerson 
had only tangential relations with the experi- 
ment, and wrote of it in a humorous though 
kindly manner. His first volume of " Essays " 
was published in 1841. In 1842 he lost his little 
son, whose death was the inspiration of the 
" Threnody." In 1846 his first volume of poems 
was published. In 1867 his later poems were 
published under the title " May Day and Other 
Pieces." Collective editions of his verse ap- 
peared in 1876 and siibsequently. His prose 
works, composed principally of his lectures, are 
" Essays," 1841 ; " Essays, Second Series," 
1844; "Miscellanies," 1849; "Representative 
Men," 1850; '' Enghsh Traits," 1856; "The 
Conduct of Life," 1860; "Society and Soli- 
tude," 1870 ; " Letters and Social Aims," 1875 ; 
and a posthumous volume, " Lectiu-es and Bio- 
graphical Sketches." He also contributed to 
the "Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli," 1852 ; 
and edited "Parnassus," 1874, a collection of 
his poetical favorites. It is impossible to over- 
estimate the influence of Emerson on the Amer- 
ican people. His lectures were a stimulus as 
well as a guide for the thought of the day. The 
latter years of his life were peaceful and happy, 
though his memory failed him, and his mind 
lost its alert poise. He died of pneumonia after 
a short illness, and was biiried in ground which 
he himself had consecrated twenty-seven years 
before. He was mourned not only by his coun- 
try but by all the world, though his refined and 
luminous soul lives forever in his immortal 
work. For a critical analysis of Emerson's life, 
philosophy, and writings, cp. " Poets of Amer- 
ica," chap. V. [b. d. l.] 

ENGLISH, Thomas Dunn, physician and 
legislator, b. Philadelphia, Penn., 29 June, 1819. 
He graduated at the medical school of the 
University of Pennsylvania, 1839, and after- 
wards studied law, entering the Philadelphia 
bar in 1842. After 1844 he was occupied in 
New York as a journalist, establishing "The 
Aristidean," 1845. From 1859 he practised 



792 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



medicine in Newark, N. J., and he represented 
his district in the U. S. House of Representa- 
tives, 1891-95. The controversy of this literary- 
veteran with Edgar Allan Poe is well remem- 
bered, hut more recently Dr. English did gen- 
erously by Poe's memory in contributions to the 
press. His popular ballad, " Ben Bolt," ap- 
peared in the " New Mirror," 1843. Among his 
books are "American Ballads," 1882; "The 
Boy's Book of Battle Lyrics," 1885 ; "Jacob 
Schuyler's Millions," novel, 1886 ; " Fairy Sto- 
ries and Wonder Tales," 1897. His "Select 
Poems," edited by his daughter, were published, 
1894. D. Newark, N. J., 1 April, 1902. 

ERSKINE, John, Columbia University, 
Class of 1900. 

FABBRI, Cora Randall, b. New York, 
N. Y., 1871 ; d. San Remo, Italy, 1892. Daugh- 
ter of Ernesto G. Fabbri, Florence, and of Sara 
Randall, New York. The tender verses of this 
young girl, upon whom many fair hopes cen- 
tred, are in a volume of "Lyrics," 1892, pub- 
lished just before her death. 

FATHER EDMUND of the Heart of 
Mary, C. P. — See Benjamin Bionysius Hill. 

FENOLLOSA, Ernest Francisco, educa- 
tor and art connoisseur, b. Salem, Mass., 1853. 
Graduated at Harvard. In 1878 was appointed 
professor of political economy at the Imperial 
University in Tokio, Japan, and also began his 
studies of Japanese art. He was made imperial 
commissioner of fine arts, 1886, and has held 
similar positions in the United States. Is now 
professor of English and English literature in 
the Higher Normal School of Tokio, and is 
making a special study of Chinese and Japanese 
poetry. — "East and West," poems, 1893. 

FENOLLOSA, Mary (McNeil), (Mary 
McNeil Scott), b. Mobile, Ala., 18—. Wife of 
E. F. Fenollosa. Author of " Out of the Nest : 
A Flight of Verses," 1899. Her charming sto- 
ries and poems, since her brief sojourn, 1890, in 
the province of Satsuma, have related mostly 
to Japanese themes. 

FIELD, Eugene, journalist, b. St. Louis, 
Mo., 3 Sept., 1850; d. Buena Park, Chicago, 
111., 4 Nov., 1895. He received his schooling 
at Amherst, Mass., and later at Williams and 
Knox Colleges and the University of Missouri. 
In 1873 he began newspaper work at St. Louis, 
which he continued in St. Joseph, Kansas City, 
and Denver until 1883, when he was called by 
Melville E. Stone to the Chicago " Daily News," 
with which paper he was connected until his 
death. His "Denver Tribune Primer" ap- 
peared in 1882. Soon after his arrival in Chi- 
cago, he began the composition of more serious 
work in prose and verse than the light contri- 
butions which had secured him recognition. 
Material of both kinds is found in " Culture's 
Garland," published in 1887. It was followed 
by " A Little Book of Western Verse," 1889 ; 
"A Little Book of Profitable Tales," 1889; 
" With Trumpet and Drum," poems about chil- 
dren, 1892; "Second Book of Verse," 1893; 



" Echoes from the Sabine Farm," with Ros- 
well M. Field, 1893 ; " The Holy Cross and 
Other Tales." 1893 ; and " Love Songs of Child- 
hood," 1894. " The Love Affairs of a Biblioma- 
niac," "TheHouse," "Songs and Other Verse," 
and "Second Book of Tales" (posthumous vol- 
umes) were included in the complete edition of 
" Works of Eugene Field," published in 1896, 
This rare and original minstrel of the West 
was the Yorick of American poetry, childhood's 
born laureate, and no less a scholar by nature 
than a man of infinite humor, and of inimitable, 
if sometimes too eccentric, jest. 

FIELDS, Annie (Adams), b. Boston, Mass., 
1834. She attended George B. Emerson's 
school in Boston. She was married to Mr. 
James T. Fields, 1854, and has published : 
" Under the Olive," poemis, 1880 ; " How to Help 
the Poor," 1883; " The Singing Shepherd, and 
Other Poems," 1895: "Authors and Friends," 
li:96 ; " A Shelf of Old Books," 1896. She has 
also written biographies of Whittier, Harriet 
Beecher Stowe, and James T. Fields. 

FIELDS, James Thomas, publisher, b. 
Portsmouth, N. H., 31 Dec, 1816 ; d. Boston, 
Mass., 24 April, 1881. His father was a ship- 
master, and died when James was four years 
old. The latter graduated at the Portsmouth 
High School at thirteen, and the next year ob- 
tained a clerkship iu the bookstore of Carter 
& Hendee at Boston. In 1832, William D. 
Ticknor bought the business, and Fields re- 
mained with him, becoming a partner in 1845, 
when the firm was reorganized. In 1854 the 
house assumed the afterward famous name of 
Ticknor & Fields, associated with the publica- 
tion of the works of Emerson, Hawthorne, Long- 
fellow, Whittier, Lowell, Holmes, and the re- 
mainder of the great Boston group of authors. 
Of all of these, Mr. Fields, himself an author of 
repute, and a still better editor, was the personal 
associate and adviser. He took the editorship 
of "The Atlantic Monthly," on Mr. Lowell's 
retirement in 1861, and held it until his own 
retirement from the publishing house, then 
Fields, Osgood, & Co.,_on Jan. 1, 1871. After 
his retirement from business, Mr. Fields became 
a favorite lecturer upon literary subjects. He 
married Miss Annie Adams, 1854. (See Annie 
Fields.) He published: "Poems," 1849; "A 
Few Verses for a Few Friends," 1858 ; " Yester- 
days with Authors," 1871 (20th edition, 1881) ; 
"Hawthorne," 1876; "In and Out of Doors 
with Charles Dickens," 1876; "Underbrush," 
1877 ; " Ballads and Other Verses," 1880. 

FINCH, Francis Miles, jurist, b. Ithaca, 
N. Y., 1827. Graduated at Yale, 1849. Was 
the Class Poet and delivered a memorable Class 
Poem. He practised law at Ithaca until 1881, 
when he was elected a justice of the N. Y. 
Court of Appeals. Since 1892 he has been 
dean of the law school of Cornell University. 
"The Blue and the Gray," which appeared in 
" The Atlantic Monthly " for 1867, has become 
a national classic. 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



793 



FINCH, JuUa (Neely), b. Mobile, Ala., 
18 — . A musician and composer of Birmingham, 
Ala. Her pure and womanly lyric of mother- 
hood, " The Unborn," first appeared in an 
Atlanta periodical. 

FLASH, Henry Lynden, b. Cincinnati, O., 
1835. Guaduated at the Western Military In- 
stitute of Kentucky. He was an officer in the 
Confederate army, and after the war miade his 
home in New Orleans until 1886, when he re- 
moved to Los Angeles, Cal. Besides his 
" Poems," 18G0, he wrote several pieces popular 
in war-time. 

FLEMING, Maybury, journalist, b. Bos- 
ton, Mass., 1853. Was educated at the Uni- 
versity of New York, and afterwards joined 
the editorial stafp of the N. Y. " Mail and Ex- 
press." A contributor to the magazines. 

FOOTE, General Lucius Harwood, b. 
Winfield, N. Y., 1826. His father, a Congrega- 
tional clergyman, made his home in Ohio and 
later in Kockford, 111. The son was educated 
at Adelbert College, Cleveland, O. In 1861 
President Lincoln appointed him collector of 
the port of Sacramento. He has also been ad- 
jutant-general of California ; U. S. consul at 
Valparaiso, Chile ; and U. S. minister to Corea. 
Author of "A Red Letter Day, and Other 
Poems," 1882 ; " On the Heights," 1897. 

" FOKESTEK, Fanny." — See Emily 
Chubbuck Judson. 

«' FOKESTEK, Frank."— See ITenry Wil- 
liam Herbert. 

FOSS, Sam "Walter, librarian, b. Candia, 
N. H., 1858. Graduated at Brown University. 
Became librarian of the Somerville Public 
Library in 1898. His published works are: 
" Back Country Poems," 1892 ; " Whiffs from 
Wild Meadows," 1896 ; " Dreams in Home- 
spun," 1898; "Songs of War and Peace," 
1899. 

FOSTEK, Stephen Collins, composer, b. 
Pittsburg, Penn., 1826 ;_ d. New York, N. Y., 
1864. He was the earliest and chief member 
of the school of composers of that idealized 
negro melody which characterizes a fourth of 
the 125 or more songs, for which he wrote both 
music and words. His "Old Folks at Home " 
was written before he was twenty and was pub- 
lished in 1850. Other well-known pieces are 
"The Suwanee River," "My Old Kentucky 
Home," " Nellie Bly," etc. 

"FOXTON, E."— See Sarah Hammond 
Palfrey. 

FRENEAU, Philip, mariner, journalist, 
and patriot, b. New York, N. Y., 1752 ; d. near 
Monmouth, N. J., 1832. The true pioneer of 
our national poets, and the first to display a no- 
table though irregular lyrical gift. Freneau 
and Hugh Brackenridge, while students at 
Princeton, wrote, and delivered at their grad- 
uation, in 1771, a metrical dialogue, "The Ris- 
ing Glory of America." During the Revolu- 



tionary War, Freneau's pen was most active 
and satirical. Between 1770 and 1790 he made 
many sea-voyages to the West Indies and other 
ports, often in command of mercantile vessels. 
"The British Prison-Ship," iu four cantos, re- 
cords the capture, in 1780, of a vessel in which 
he and aU on board were taken prisoners. 
Many of his poems were published in "The 
Freeman's Journal," with which he was con- 
nected in Philadelphia. He edited the " Daily 
Advertiser," New York, 1790; and the "Na- 
tional Gazette," Philadelphia, 1791. After an 
interval of sea-life, he made, in 1812, his 
permanent home in New Jersey. Author of 
"Poems of PhUip Freneau, Written chiefly dur- 
ing the Late War," 1786 ; " Poems Written be- 
tween the Years 1788 and 1794," 1795 ; "Poems 
Written and Published during the American 
Revolutionary War," 1809; and "A Collec- 
tion of Poems on American Affairs," 1815. 
The edition of 1795 came from the author's 
own press at Monmouth, N. J. — Cp. " Poets 
of America," pp. 35, 36. 

FKOTHINGHAM, Nathaniel Langdon, 
clergyman, b. Boston, Mass., 1793 ; d. there, 
1870. A graduate of Harvard. He was pastor 
of a Unitarian church at Boston from 1815 to 
1850. Besides various theological writings, he 
was the author of " Metrical Pieces," 1855 and 
1870. His poem, " The Crossed Swords," was 
written " on seeing the swords of Col. Prescott 
and Capt. Linzee, now crossed through a carved 
wreath of olive leaves, in the hall of the Massa- 
chusetts Historical Society." 

FULLEK, Margaret "Witter, b. Brooklyn, 
N. Y., 187-. Daughter of James Ebenezer 
Fuller, of Norwich, Conn., in which city she 
has resided since her childhood. 

FUKNESS, "William Henry, clergyman, 
b. Boston, Mass., 1802 ; d. Philadelphia, Penn., 
1896. He was a graduate of Harvard and of 
the Harvard Theological school, and in 1825 
became pastor of the Unitarian church in Phil- 
adelphia. He wrote many theological works. 
His " Verses : Translations and Hymns," was 
issued in 1886. His son, Horace Howard Fur- 
ness, is the most eminent Shakespearean scholar 
living, and editor of the Variorum Edition of 
Shakespeare's plays. 

GALLAGHER, "William Davis, b. Phila- 
delphia, Penn., 1808 ; d. Louisville, Ky., 1894. 
Associate editor Cincinnati "Gazette" and 
Louisville " Courier." Delegate to the conven- 
tion of 1860 that nominated Lincoln. Private 
secretary to Thomas Corwin and to S. P. Chase. 
President Ohio Historical Society. He strove 
to diffuse a taste for letters, and compiled the 
earliest anthology of Western poetry: "Selec- 
tions from the Poetical Literature of the West," 
Cincinnati, 1840. His "Erato," poems, ap- 
peared in 1835-37 ; his " Miami Woods, A Golden 
Wedding, and Other Poems," in 1881. 

GARDNER, "WiUiam Henry, song- writer, 
b. Boston, Mass., 1865. Has devoted himself 



794 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



chiefly to verse-writing for music. His lyrics 
have been interpreted by both American and 
English composers. Author of " Work and 
Play Songs, "1899. 

GARLAND, Hamlin, novelist, b. West 
Salem, Wis., 1860. Graduated at Cedar Val- 
ley Seminary, Osage, la. Taught school in 
Illinois, 1882-83, and preempted a claim in Da- 
kota, 1883, but in the following year removed 
to Boston, Mass., where he devoted himself to 
study and literary work, at the same time 
teaching in the School of Oratory. Has resided 
in Chicago and West Salem since 1891, with the 
exception of trips northwest, and to the East 
and Europe, in connection with his literary and 
historical researches. He has published " Prai- 
rie Songs," 1893 ; " Crumbling Idols," essays, 
1894 ; " Ulysses Grant : an Interpretation," 
1898; " The Trail of the Gold-Seekers," 1899. 
Mr. Garland's books of fiction include "Main- 
Travelled Koads," 1890; "A Little Norsk," 
1891; "A Spoil of Office," 1892; "Rose of 
Butcher's Coolly," 1895. 

GARRISON, WendeU Phillips, b. Cam- 
bridgeport, Mass., 1840. Graduated at Har- 
vard. A son of William Lloyd Garrison, and 
literary editor of the New York "Nation" 
from its foundation in 1865. Since 1866 he has 
lived in Orange, N. J., and among other works 
has published, in collaboration with his brother, 
"William Lloyd Garrison: The Story of His 
Life, Told by His Children," four volumes, 
1885-89. An exquisite private edition of his 
"Sonnets and Lyrics of the Ever- Womanly," 
printed in 1898, contains " The Post-Meridian " 
sonnets. The book itself was examined by the 
editor of this anthology too late for the inser- 
tion, heretofore, of the following beautiful 
sonnet : — 

AT GREENWOOD CEMETERY 

Here was the ancient strand, the utmost reach, 

Of the great Northern ice-wave ; hitherto 

With its last pulse it mounted, then withdrew, 

Leaving its fringe of wreckage on the beach : 

Boulder and pebble and sand-matrix — each 

From crag or valley ravished; scanty clue 

To its old site affording in its new, 

Yet real, as the men of science teach. 

Life hath not less its terminal moraine : 

Look how on that discharged from melting snows 

Another rears itself, the spoil of plain 

And mountain also, marked by stones in rows. 

With legend meet for such promiscuous pain : 

Here, rests — Hier ruhet, or Ici repose. 

GARRISON, W^illiam Lloyd, abolitionist, 
b. Newburyport, Mass., 1805; d. New York, 
N. Y., 1879. Established "The Liberator," 
Boston, 1831, and conducted it until 1865. Was 
founder of the American Anti-Slavery Society, 
and its president from 1843 to 1865. Suffered 
imprisonment in Boston and Maryland. In 
Georgia a reward was set upon his head. After 
his death his statue was erected in Boston, 
where he had been mobbed for his principles. 



His "Sonnets and Poems," chiefly devoted to 
freedom, appeared in 1843. 

GEORGE, Margaret Gilman. — See M. G. 

Davidson. 

GILDER, Joseph B., journalist, b. Flush- 
ing, N. Y., 1858. Brother of Richard Watson 
Gilder. Entered the United Stktes Naval 
Academy at Annapolis, Md., 1872, but resigned 
two years later. Engaged in journalism until 
1881, when, with his sister, Miss Jeannette L. 
Gilder, he organized " The Critic," and with 
her has edited it ever since. Mr. Gilder is also 
the editor of the life and speeches of Hon. Chaun- 
cey M. Depew, and of an edition of Lowell's 
" Impressions of Spain." 

GILDER, Richard Watson, editor and 
reformer, b. Bordentown, N. J., 8 Feb., 184'4. 
He studied at Bellevue Seminary, the college 
founded in Bordentown by his father. Rev. 
William H. Gilder. During the Confederate 
invasion of Pennsylvania he served in Landis's 
Philadelphia Battery. His father's death put 
an end to his law studies, and he joined the 
staff of the Newark, N. J., " Daily Advertiser," 
1864. In 1868 he established and edited with 
Newton Crane the Newark "Morning Regis- 
ter," and afterwards was editor of the New 
York "Hours at Home." Was associate editor 
of "Scribner's Monthly" (afterwards "The 
Century ") from its foundation in 1870 ; and on 
the death of Dr. J. G. Holland, 1881, became 
editor-in-chief. His volume of poems, "The 
New Day," 1875, was followed by several others 
afterwards included in " Lyrics, and Other 
Poems," 1885; "Two Worlds, and Other Po- 
ems," 1891; "The Great Remembrance, and 
Other Poems," 1893 ; " Five Books of Song," 
complete to date, 1894; "For the Country," 
poems, 1897 ; " In Palestine, and Other Poems," 
1898. For some years past, Mr. Gilder, always 
a sincere humanitarian, has been prominent in 
social and political reform, and especially suc- 
cessful as chairman of the Commission for the 
Inspection and Betterment of the Tenement 
House System in New York City. He gave 
effective aid to the cause of International Copy- 
right. The_ Authors Club was founded at his 
home. He is married to the artist, Helena De 
Kay, sister of Charles De Kay, and granddaugh- 
ter of Joseph Rodman Drake. His influence 
has been propitious in many directions taken 
by our literary and artistic movements of recent 
years. From the first, the growth and excel- 
lence of the " Century Magazine " have been 
largely due to Mr. Gilder's editorial sense, tact, 
and unenvious appreciation. His poetry is of a 
pure cast, finished in the extreme, and often 
notably lyrical. Cp. "Poets of America," p. 
442. 

GILLESPY, Jeannette Bliss, Barnard 
College, Class of 1900. 

GLYNDON, Howard. — See L. R. Searing. 

GLYNES, Ella Maria (Dietz), b. New 
York, N. Y,, 185-. She made her d^but as an 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



795 



actress in New York, 1872, but played chiefly 
in England for some years. In 1881 ill-health 
compelled her to leave the stage. Her first 
husband was Edward Clymer, a merchant. In 
1899 she was married in London to Webster 
GlsTies, barrister. Mrs. Glynes was a founder 
of the Sorosis Society and its fifth president. 
She also helped to form the Church and Stage 
GuUd, 1880. Author of "The Triumph of 
Love," 1878 ; " The Triumph of Time," 1884; 
" The Triumph of Life," 1885. 

GOETZ, PhiUp Becker, Harvard Univer- 
sity, Class of 1893. 

GOODALE, Dora Beed, b. Mount Wash- 
ington, Mass., 1866. Sister of Mrs. Charles A. 
Eastman, and author with her, in childhood, of 
"Apple Blossoms," 1878 ; "In Berkshire with 
Wild Flowers," 1879, and "All Round the 
Year," 1880. Has since contributed to many 
magazines. Her separate volume, "Heralds- 
of Easter," appeared in 1887. 

GOODALE, Elaine. — See Elaine Eastman. 

GOODRICH, Samuel Griswold, b. Ridge- 
field, Conn., 1793; d. New York,'N. Y., 1860. 
During his career as publisher and author in 
Hartford and Boston he edited and wrote one 
hundred and seventy volumes, chiefly over the 
pseudonym " Peter Parley." Many of these 
books achieved a wide popularity. He edited 
" The Token," an annual, from 1828 to 1832. 
" The Outcast, and Other Poems," appeared in 
1836. 

GORDON, Armistead Churchill, b. Al- 
bemarle Co., Va., 1855. A graduate of the 
VirginiaUniversity, founded by his grandfather. 
General W. F. Gordon. While in college he 
contributed to the New York magazines, and in 
1880 published, with Thomas Nelson Page, 
" Befo' de War," poems. This was followed 
by "Echoes in Negro Dialect," 1888, and "For 
Truth and Freedom," 1898. Mr. Gordon is a 
lawyer and ex-mayor of Staunton, Va. 

GOULD, Hannah Flagg, b. Lancaster, 

Mass., 1789 ; d. Newburyport, Mass., 1865. She 
w^as a sister of Benjamin Apthorp Gould, the 
classical scholar, and resided at Newburyport 
for the greater part of her life. Her three vol- 
umes of " Poems " appeared in 1832, 1836, and 
1841. 

GOUBAUD, George Fauvel, lawyer, b. 
New York, N. Y., 1872. Studied at Harrow, 
England, and the Polytechnicum, Hanover, 
Germany. Graduated at the Yale Law School, 
and was admitted to the New York bar, 1896. 
— " Ballads of Coster-Land," 1897. 

GRAY, David, b. Edinburgh, Scotland, 
1836 ; d. Binghamton, 1888. In 1856 he joined 
the staff of the Buffalo, N. Y., "Courier," of 
which he afterward became editor, resigning 
on account of ill-health. His Letters, Prose 
Writings, Poems, etc., were edited by J. N. 
Lamed in 1888. 

GREENE, Albert Gorton, lawyer, b. Pro- 



vidence, R. I., 1802 ; d. Cleveland, O., 1868. 
Graduated at Brown University. Was for 
twenty-five years clerk of the Municipal Court 
at Providence, and its jud^e 1858-67. The 
original school bill of Rhode Island was drafted 
by his hand. He was conspicuous in the found- 
ing of the Providence Athenseum. For fourteen 
years president of the Rhode Island Historical 
Society. His poems have never been published 
in a collected form. Judge Greene was the 
founder of the " Harris Collection of American 
Poetry," bequeathed to Brown University by 
the late Senator Anthony. The editor of the 
present Anthology has frequently profited by 
the resources of this collection. 

GREENE, Homer, lawyer, b. Ariel, Penn., 
1853. A graduate of Union College, and now a 
resident of Honesdale, Penn., where he has prac- 
tised law since 1879. Author of several books 
of fiction and of occasional poems. His win- 
some and melodious ballad, ' What my Lover 
Said," fairly deserves its popularity. 

GREENE, Sarah Pratt (McLean), b. 
Simsbury, Conn., 1858. Educated at Mt. Hol- 
yoke, Mass. Taught school near Plymouth, 
Mass., where she obtained the material for her 
"Cape Cod -Folks," 1881. She was married 
to F. L. Greene, and removed to the West. 
Since his death she has resided in New Eng- 
land. Among her books are ' ' Towhead," 1884, 
containing her best-known poem, " De Sheep- 
fol' ; " " Lastchance Junction," 1889. 

GRISSOM, Arthur, b. Payson, 111., 1869. 
Well-known as editor of " Spirit," and a mem- 
ber of Mr. Munsey's staff. He was interested 
in the " Kansas City Independent," and he was 
editor of "The Smart Set." He published a 
volume of society verse entitled " Beaux and 
BeUes," 1896. D. New York, N. Y., 1901. 

" GROOT, Cecil de." — See Wallace Bice. 

GUINEY, Louise Imogen, b. Boston, 

Mass., 1861. Daughter of the late Gen. Patrick 
Robert Guiney. She graduated from Elm- 
hurst Academy, Providence, R. I., and since 
has resided chiefly in and near Boston, en- 
gaged in literary pursuits. Her works include 
"Songs at the Start," 1884; "Goose Quill 
Papers," 1885; "The White Sail," 1887; 
"Brownies and Bogies," 1888; "Monsieur 
Henri : a Footnote to French History," 1892 ; 
"A Roadside Harp," 1893; "Three Heroines 
of New England Romance," with Mrs. Spof- 
ford and Alice Brown, 1894 ; "A Little Eng- 
lish Gallery," 1894; " Patrins " essays, 1897; 
" The Martyr's Idyl, and Shorter Poems," 
1899. 

GUMMERE, Francis Barton, educator, 
b. Burlington, N. J., 1855. Studied at Haver- 
ford College, Harvard, and Freiburg Univer- 
sity. In 1887 he became professor of English at 
Haverford College, Penn. Author of "The 
Anglo-Saxon Metaphor," 1881; "Handbook of 
Poetics," 1885 ; " Germanic Origins : a Study 
in Primitive Culture," 1892. 



796 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



HALE, Edward Everett, clergyman ahd 
author, b. Boston, Mass., 3 April, 1822. Dr. 
Hale has been identified with humanitarian 
projects for over half a century, and his influ- 
ence as pastor, writer, and philanthropist will 
long be felt. His patriotic tale, "The Man 
Without a Country," the best short story of its 
time, is enough for one_ author's fame. The 
poem which represents Mm in this collection is 
a vivid expression of his striking personality, 
and of university traditions in which his record 
and bearing are an essential part. In addition 
to his prose works. Dr. Hale has published a 
volume of poems under the title of " For Fifty 
Years." 

HALE, Sarah Josepha (Buell), b. New- 
port, N. H.,1788 ; d. Philadelphia, Penn., 1879. 
Editor of the " Ladies' Magazine" at Boston, 
1828-37, and of " Godey's Ladies' Book " until 
1877. An early advocate of the higher educa- 
tion of women. It is said that the celebration 
of Thanksgiving as a national festival was 
largely due to her influence. Her first publica- 
tion was " Genius of Oblivion, and Other Ori- 
ginal Poems," 1828. Her literary reputation 
rests upon the collection " Three Hours, or the 
Vigil of Love, and Other Poems." 

HALL, Gertrude, b. Boston, Mass., 186-. 
She was ediieated in Italy. Her first volume, 
"Verses," appeared in 1890, and was followed 
by " Allegretto," 1894, and " The Age of Fairy 
Gold," 1899. She has also written several 
books of short stories, and has made translations 
from Paul Verlaine, and one of Rostand's 
" Cyrano de Bergerac." 

HALLECK, Fitz-Greene, b. Guilford, 
Conn., 8 July, 1790; d. there,_ 19 Nov., 1867. 
He was of Puritan and Pilgrim descent, and 
counted John Eliot, the apostle to the Indians, 
among his ancestors. Educated at the schools 
of his native town, he took a position as a clerk 
in the store of his relative, Andrew Eliot, of 
Guilford, when fifteen years old. Six years 
later, in 1811, he came to New York, and ob- 
tained a place in the banking house of Jacob 
Barker, with whom he remained until 1832. 
From 1832 to 1849 he was employed as an ac- 
countant by John Jacob Astor, receiving a pen- 
sion on the latter's death, and retiring to Guil- 
ford, where the remainder of his life was 
passed. His friendship with Joseph Rodman 
Drake resulted in their sei-ies of satirical 
"Croaker" papers, published anonymously 
in the New York "Evening Post" in 1819 (see 
Drake, J. B.). The reputation gained by this 
work was further enhanced by the appearance 
of Halleck's poem " Fanny " in the same year, 
a travesty of the manners of the time. His best- 
known poem, "Marco Bozzaris," was printed 
by Bryant in the " New York Review," in 182.5. 
" Alnwick Castle, with Other Poems," his first 
volume, came out in 1827. The collective edi- 
tion of his " Poetical Writings," 1869, and 
" The Life and Letters of Fitz-Greene Hal- 
leck," 1869, were prepared by General James 
Grant Wilson, 



HALPINE, Charles Graham, " Miles 
O'Reilly," b. Oldcastle, County Meath, Ireland, 
1829 ; d. New York, N. Y., 1868. He was grad- 
uated at the University of Dublin, and came 
to America about 1851. He joined the staff of 
the Boston "Post," and in 1857 became editor 
of the New York "Leader." Enhsting early 
in the Union army, he rose to the rank of brig- 
adier-general of volunteers. After the war, 
in 1864, he returned to newspaper life and poli- 
tics in New York. His " Lite and Adventures, 
Songs, etc., of Private Miles O'Reilly," 1864, 
and " Baked Meats of the Funeral," 1866, first 
appeared as papers in the New York " Herald." 
" The Poetical Works of Charles G. Halpine," 
1869, was a posthumous volume. 

HANSBROUGH, Mary Berri (Chapman), 
b. Washington, D. C, 187-. A writer of prose 
and verse. She was married in 1897 to Heru'y 
Clay Hansbrough, senator from North Dakota. 
Her volume "Lyrics of Love and Nature'* 
appeared in 1895. 

HARDY, Arthur Sherburne, novelist 
and mathematician, b. Andover, Mass., 13 Aug., 
1847. Graduated at West Point, and was 
made 2d Ueutenant in the 3d artillery regi- 
ment, U. S. A., 1869. He resigned from the 
army the follovdng year, and after a period of 
travel and study abroad was appointed profes- 
sor of civil engineering at Iowa College. From 
1878 to 1893 he was professor of mathematics at 
Dartmouth. After a brief connection with 
the " Cosmopolitan " magazine, Mr. Hardy was 
made minister to Persia in 1897, and two years 
later was transferred to the ministry at Athens. 
Author of " Francescaof Rimini," poem, 1878 ; 
" But yet a Woman," 1883 ; " The Wind of 
Destiny," 1886; "Passe Rose," 1889; "Life 
and Letters of Joseph Hardy Neesima," 1891. 

HARNEY, WiU Wallace, b. Bloomington, 
Ind., 1831. He studied at Louisville College 
and taught in the Kentucky State Normal 
School. He succeeded his father as editor of 
the Louisville " Democrat " in 1869, but soon 
removed to an orange grove in Florida. His 
contributions to different periodicals have not 
been collected. 

HARRIS, Joel Chandler, b. Eatonton, Ga., 
9 Dec, 1848. He learned the printer's trade 
in the office of the Georgia " Countryman," 
and his early compositions appeared in that 
paper. In 1890 he became editor of the Atlanta 

Constitution," in which journal he had first 
published his "Uncle Remus, His Songs and 
His Sayings," 1880, now a veritable classic. 
His works include " Nights with Uncle 
Remus," 1882 ; " Mingo, and Other Sketches," 
1884; ''Daddy Jake the Runaway," 1889; a 
biography of Henry W. Grady, 1890 ; " Balaam 
and his Master," 1891 ; " Little Mr. Thimble- 
finger and his Queer Country," 1894; "Aaron 
in the Wfldwoods," 1897 ; " Tales of the Home 
Folks in Peace and War," 1898; "Georgia 
from the Invasion of De Soto to Recent Times," 
1899. 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



797 



HARKIS, Thomas Lake, b. Fenny Strat- 
ford, England, 1823. He founded the Brother- 
hood of the New Life, a mystical organization 
at Salem-on-Erie, near Brocton, N. Y., and 
afterwards became a resident of California. 
"The Great Republic, a Poem of the Sun," 
1867 ; " Star Flowers," verse, 1886 ; and " God's 
Breath in Man," 1891, are among his published 
writings. At the age of seventy-seven Mr. 
Harris made his home in New York City, and 
was still alert with pen and brain. 

HAETE, Francis Bret, b. Albany, N. Y., 
25 Aug., 1839. He lost his father in childhood, 
and, after receiving a common school education, 
went to Sonora, Cal., where he taught for 
a while. He afterwards worked in a mine and 
in a printing-oiB.ce, was an express agent, and 
finally formed an editorial connection with 
" The Golden Era " of San Francisco. In 186-i 
he was made secretary of the U. S. Branch 
Mint, and became editor of ' ' The Calif ornian, ' ' 
in which weekly he published his " Condensed 
Novels." In 1868 he began to edit the newly 
founded " Overland Monthly," and contributed 
to its second number his story "The Luck of 
Koaring Camp." The humorous poem " Plain 
Talk from Truthful James " appeared in the 
same magazine in 1870. His fame spreading, 
he removed to the Atlantic coast in 1871 ; was 
appointed U. S. consul at Crefeld, Germany, 
in 1878, and at Glasgow, Scotland, in 1880. 
After holding the latter office five years, he 
made his home in England, near London. 
Among his works are " Condensed Novels," 
1867 ; " Poems," 1871 ; " The Luck of Roaring 
Camp, and Other Sketches," 1871 ; "East and 
WestPoems," 1871 ; "Stories of the Sierras," 
1872- "Poetical Works," 1873; "Echoes of 
the Foothills," poems, 1874; "Tales of the 
Argonauts," 1875 ; " Thankful Blossom," 1876 ; 
" Drift from Two Shores '' 1878 ; "In the Car- 
quinez Woods," 1883 ; " By Shore and Sedge," 
1885 ; " Maruja," novel, 1885 ; " Snowbound at 
Eagle's," 1886; "The Queen of the Pirate 
Isle," for children, 1887; "A Phyllis of the 
Sierras," 1887 ; " A Waif of the Plains," 1890 ; 
" In a HoUow of the Hills," 1895 ; " Three Part- 
ners," 1897. D. Camberley, Eng., 6 May, 1902. 

HASTINGS, Thomas, musician and hymn- 
writer, b. Washington, Conn., 1784 ; d. New 
York, N. Y., 1872. Widely known as com- 
poser, lecturer, teacher, and writer in the in- 
terest of sacred music. Distinguished with 
Dr. Lowell Mason as a founder of the prevail- 
ing psalmody of America. From 1842 till his 
death. Dr. Hastings made New York City the 
centre of his labors, being associated with many 
churches of the metropolis, and a constant con- 
tributor to the periodic press. 



HA'WKES, Clarence, b. Goshen, 
1869. Known as_ the "Blind Poet of New 
England." An industrious writer of short 
stories, poems, and sketches, and also a lec- 
turer. Among his publications are " Pebbles 
and Shells," verse, 1895 ; " Idyls of Old New 



England," 1897 ; "The Hope of the World, and 
Other Poems," 1900. 

HAWTHORNE, Hildegarde, b. New 
York, N. Y., 18—. A daughter of Julian 
Hawthorne. By her occasional poems and 
sketches she has proved that a literary heritage 
can descend to the third generation, 

HAWTHORNE, Julian, novelist, b. Bos- 
ton, Mass., 22 June, 1846. Son of Nathaniel 
Hawthorne, and brother of Rose Hawthorne 
Lathrop. He spent a number of years in 
Europe before and after his graduation at Har- 
vard, beginning life as a civil engineer. Since 
1882 he has Hved chiefly in New York City and 
its vicinage. His "Saxon Studies" were pub- 
lished in "The Contemporary Review" and 
afterwards in a volume. His works include 
"Garth," 1875; "Archibald Malmaison." 
1878 ; " Nathaniel Hawthorne and His Wife," 
1885 ; " Confessions and Criticisms," 1887 ; and 
many other volumes in various departments of 
literature. 

HAWTHORNE, Nathaniel, romancer, b. 
Salem, Mass., 4 July, 1804; d. Plymouth,, 
N. H., 19 May, 1864. The most imaginative 
and eminent of American romancers in the 
19th century left no volume of poetry, and it 
appears not to have been recalled, until very 
recently, that anything in verse-form had ap- 
peared from his pen. Geo. Parsons Lathrop, 
however, before his own death, in 1898, chanced 
upon a copy of the religious illustrated gift- 
book, in the style of the " Annuals " of that 
day, "Scenes in the Life of our Saviour: by 
the Poets and Painters, " published under R. 
W. Griswold's editorship, 1845. The book 
contains two contributions in verse by Haw- 
thorne, entitled "Walking on the Sea," and 
" The Star of Calvary." The last-named 
poem, composed, like Hood's "Eugene Aram " 
and Rossetti's "Blessed Damozel," in the 
measure and manner of Coleridge's " Wondrous 
Rime," is by far the better of the two and wortb 
its space on p. 191, 

HAY, Helen, b. New York, N. Y., 18—. 
Daughter of John Hay. The poetry in Miss 
Hay's initial volume, "Some Verses," 1898, 
has the quality of distinction, and was at once 
approved for its artistic perfection, impassioned 
lyrical expression, and suggestion of reserved 
dramatic force, (Now Mrs. Payne Whitney.) 

HAY, John, diplomat and statesman, b. 
Salem, Ind., 8 Oct., 1838. Graduated at Brown 
University ; admitted to the bar in 1861. He 
was assistant private secretary to Lincoln from 
the beginning of the war till the President's 
death, and served as his adjutant and aide-de- 
camp. In 186- he went to the front with Gen- 
erals Hunter and Gillmore and saw active ser- 
vice. He won the rank of major and assistant 
adjutant-general, and was brevetted lieutenant 
colonel and colonel. He was U. S. secretary of 
legation at Paris, 1865-67 ; charg^ d'affaires 
at Vienna, 1867-68; and secretary of legation 



798 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



at Madrid, 1868-70. After his return to Amer- 
ica he joined the staif of the New York "Tri- 
bune," and was one of the ablest leader-writers 
that have adorned our journalism. As a diver- 
sion, he contributed some of his Pike County 
Ballads to that paper. He was assistant 
secretary of state under President Hayes, 
1879-81, but it was not until 1897 that an ad- 
ministration gave him an opportunity, as am- 
bassador to Great Britain, of fully utilizing his 
natural and trained abilities for the highest 
diplomatic service. In 1898 he was recalled to 
enter Pres. McKinley's cabinet as secretary of 
state, at the most important and historic stage, 
since the Civil War, of American events. Mr. 
Hay has published " Pike County Ballads, and 
Other Pieces," 1871 ; " Castilian Days," 1871 ; 
" Poems, "_ 1890 _; and with J. G. Nicolay, the 
authoritative history of Abraham Lincoln 
which first appeared in " The Century Maga- 
zine," 1887. He never has acknowledged his 
alleged authorship of the anonymous novel 
" The Bread-Winners," 1883. 

HAYES, Ednah Proctor (Clarke), b. 

New York, N. Y., 187-. Daughter of Col. 
I. Edwards Clarke, of the U. S. Bureau of 
Education, Washington, D. C, which city was 
her chief place of residence untU her marriage 
in 1899 to Dr. Henry L. Hayes, and her re- 
moval with him to the Hawaiian Islands. Is a 
cousin of Edna Dean Proctor. Author of " An 
Opal: Verses by Ednah Proctor Clarke," 1897. 

HAYES, John Kussell, asst. professor of 
English, Swarthmore College, b. West Chester, 
Penn., 1866. Graduate of Swarthmore, Har- 
vard, and University of Pennsylvania Law 
School. Author of " The Old Fashioned Gar- 
den, and Other Verses," 1895; "The Brandy- 
wine," 1898 ; " West Chester Centennial Ode," 
1899; "Swarthmore Idylls," 1899. 

HAYNE, Paul Hamilton, b. Charleston, 
S. C, 1 Jan., 1830 ; d. " Copse Hill," Grove- 
town, Ga., 6 July, 1886. He was graduated at 
the University of South Carolina, gave up the 
practice of law for literature, and edited suc- 
cessively, "Russell's Magazine," the Charles- 
ton " Literary Gazette " and " Evening News." 
He was a colonel in the Confederate army, and 
wrote several popular Confederate songs. The 
war undermining his health and destroying his 
home, he retired with his family to a cottage, 
" Copse Hill," at Grovetown, in the pine bar- 
rens near Augusta, Ga. Hayne was long our 
representative Southern poet, honored and be- 
loved by his colleagues in all portions of the 
United States, and by not a few in the Mother- 
land. He issued "Poems," 1855; "Sonnets 
and Other Poems," 1857; " Avolio, a Legend 
of Cos," 1859 ; " Legends and Lyrics," 1872 ; 
" The Moimtain of the Lovers, and Other 
Poems," 1873. He wrote a memoir of Henry 
Timrod, 1873 ; and lives of Hugh S. Legar^ and 
of his imcle, Robert Y. Hayne, 1878. An ele- 
gant edition of his com.plete poems appeared in 
1882. 



HAYTfE, "WilHam Hamilton, b. Charles- 
ton, S. C, 1856. Son of Paul Hamilton Hayiie. 
Received his education chiefly at home. The 
greater part of his life has been passed at 
" Copse Hill," Grovetown, the family residence 
near Augusta, Ga. His first published poem 
appeared in 1881. Author of "Sylvan Lyrics, 
and Other Verses," 1893, and of numerous 
critical articles. 

HEATON, John Langdon, journalist, b. 
Canton, N. J., 1860. Graduated there, at St. 
Lawrence University, 1880. Among his writ- 
ings are "Stories of Napoleon," 1895; "The 
Quilting Bee, and Other Poems," 1896. 

HEDGE, Frederic Henry, Unitarian clergy- 
man, b. Cambridge, Mass., 1805 ; d. there, 1890. 
Son of Prof. Levi Hedge. In 1818 he was sent 
to Germany, where he passed five years in 
study. Graduated at Harvard in 1825, and in 
1857 was appointed professor of ecclesiastical 
history there, and later professor of German. 
He edited "The Christian Examiner," 1857-' 
60, wrote the standard work, " The Prose 
Writers of Germany," 1848; " Martin Luther, 
and Other Essays," 1888 ; several theological 
works, and many hymns and translations of 
hymns. With Mrs. Annis Lee Wister he pre- 
pared " Metrical Translations and Poems." 

HELLMAN, George Sidney, b. New 
York, N. Y., 1878. Son of Mrs. Frances Hell- 
man, whose translations from Heine and other 
German poets have distinction. Graduated at 
Columbia, where he was editor of the " Liter- 
ary Monthly" and managing editor of the 
"Spectator." In 1899, with Mr. W. A. Brad- 
ley, he established "East and West," a 
monthly literary magazine. 

" H. H. " — See Helen Maria {Fiske) Jack- 
son. 

HERBERT, Henry "William ("Frank 
Forester"), b. London, Eng., 1807 ; died by his 
own hand. New York, N. Y., 1858. Son of the 
Dean of Manchester, and a graduate of Oxford, 
He came to New Jersey in the thirties, and 
made his living by work as a classical editor 
and man of letters. Edited the "American 
Monthly," 1833-36. Author of "Cromwell," 
1837; "My Shooting Box," 1846, and many 
books on field sports and on historical themes. 
His (collected) ' Poems, a Memorial Volume," 
was edited by Mrs. Margaret Herbert Mather, 
("Morgan Herbert") and brought out in an 
elegant subscription edition, 1888. 

HERPORD, OUver, b. (Fah-yland ?) 186-. 
Son of the Rev. Brooke Herford. His double 
talent with pen and pencil, in the exercise of 
fancy, wit, and humor, has won him an enviable 
position among writers of the day. Some of his 
publications are : " Artful Anticks," 1888 ; 
" The Primer of Natural History," 1899 ; " The 
Bashful Earthquake," 1899. 

" HERMES, Paul." — See TT-^. R. Thayer. 

HICKOX, Chauncey, journalist, b. Ra- 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



799 



venna, O., 1837. A resident of Washington, 
D. C, since 1865. 

HIGGINSON, Ella (Rhoads), b. Council 
Grove, Kan., 186-. She married Russell Car- 
don Higginson in 1882, and of late has resided 
in New Whatcom, Wash. Has published sev- 
eral books of short stories, and also a volume 
of verse, " When the Birds go North again," 
1898. 

HIGGINSON, Mary Potter (Thaeher), b. 
Maehias, Me., 1844. She was married to Col. 
Thomas Wentworth Higginson in 1879. She 
has written " Seashore and Prairie, Stories 
and Sketches," 1876 ; and, with her husband, 
a volume of poems, " Such as They Are," 
1893. 

HIGGINSON, Thomas "Wentworth, b. 
Cambridge, Mass., 22 Dec, 1823. A descend- 
ant of the Rev. Francis Higginson, distin- 
guished among the earliest Puritan colonists 
of New England. Graduating at Harvard, he 
was for a time engaged in teaching. He studied 
for the liberal ministry, and was settled over 
churches at Newburyport and Worcester, Mass. 
During this period, 1847 to 1858, he took an 
active part in the anti-slavery movement, and 
served as a soldier in the Free State campaign 
in Kansas. He resigned from the ministry in 
1858, and thereafter engaged in literary work. 
From 1862 to 1864 he was colonel of the first 
regiment of freed slaves recruited for the Fed- 
eral army, and served in the Florida and South 
Carolina campaigns. A few years after the 
war he made his permanent residence at Cam- 
bridge, Mass. Colonel Higginson labored earn- 
estly, both as a lecturer and writer, in behalf 
of woman sufPrage and other reform move- 
ments. He was appointed military and naval 
historian of Massachusetts in the Civil War in 
1889. He has published books in many depart- 
ments of literature, including " Outdoor Pa- 
pers;" 1863 ; " Malbone, an Oldport Romance, " 

1869 ; " Armv Life in a Black Regiment," 

1870 ; " Atlantic Essays," 1871 ; " The Sympa- 
thies of Religions," 1871; "Common Sense 
about Women," 1882 ; "Life of Margaret Ful- 
ler," 1884 ; " The Monarch of Dreams," 1887 ; 
" The Afternoon Landscape : Poems and 
Translations," 1888 ; " Concerning All of Us," 
1892 ; and "Cheerful Yesterdays," autobio- 
graphical, 1898. As a scholar, critic, and 
exponent of his own early essay, "A Plea for 
Culture," Col. Higginson in his career has 
been identified with the progress of American 
thought and letters during the second half of 
the nineteenth century. 

HILDRETH, Charles Lotin, b. New York, 
N. Y., 1857 ; d. 1896. A iournalist of New 
York, who wrote for the "World," 1883, and 
was afterward a writer for " Belford's Maga- 
zine." Author of "Judith," a novel, 1876; 
" The New Symphony, and Other Stories," 
1878; "The Masque of Death, and Other 
Poems," 1889. 

HILL, Benjamin Dionysius (Father Ed- 



mund of the Heart of Mary, C. P.), b. Wot- 
tan Underwood, Buckinghamshire, Eng., 1842. 
Now a resident of Dunkirk, N. Y. His father 
was vicar of Wottan. Father Edmund was ed- 
ucated at Oxford and Cambridge Universities. 
His poetical works include " Poems Devo- 
tional and Occasional," 1877; "Passion Flow- 
ers," 1898: "Mariae Corolla: a Wreath for 
Our Lady,'* 1898. 

HILL, George, b. Guilford, Conn., 1796 ; d. 
New York, N. Y., 1871. He graduated at 
Yale, and held several positions under the U. S. 
government. His " The Ruins of Athens, and 
Other Poems," 1884, was reissued, with addi- 
tions, in 1839, as " The Ruins of Athens, Ti- 
tania's Banquet, and Other Poems." 

HILLHOUSE, Augustus Lucas, b. New 
Haven, Conn., 1792 ; d. near Paris, France, 
1859. Brother of J. A. Hillhouse, and a grad- 
uate of Yale. His hymn, " Forgiveness of Sins 
a Joy Unknown to Angels," written at Paris, 
was published in the "Christian Spectator," 
1822. 

HILLHOUSE, James Abraham, b. New 
Haven, Conn., 1789; d. New Haven, Conn., 
1841. Graduated at Yale. After engaging in 
mercantile pursuits for a few years, he resigned 
and spent the rest of his life quietly at his 
country home near New Haven. " Dramas, 
Discourses, and Other Pieces" appeared in 
1839. _ As he was one of the earliest Americans 
to write a truly poetic drama, its most effective 
scene, which in some degree reflects the influ- 
ence of BjTon, is included in the present 
Anthology. 

HIRST, Henry Beck, b. Philadelphia, 
Penn., 1813; d. there, 1874. A lawyer, who 
resided in his native city. He published a 
" Poetical Dictionary," 18— ; " The Coming of 
the Mammoth, and Other Poems," 1845; 
"Endymion, a Tale of Greece," verse, 1848; 
"The Penance of Roland, a Romance of the 
Peine Forte et Dure, and Other Poems," 1849. 
He was severely criticised by Poe, who never- 
theless paid tribute to his poetic qualities. A 
collective edition of poems has befeu promised 
under the editorship of Dr. Matthews Woods, 
who is of the belief that Poe found suggestions 
for some of his own effects in verse from the 
measures of the author of " The Funeral of 
Time " and kindred lyrics. 

HOFFMAN, Charles Fenno, lawyer and 
journalist, b. New York, N. Y., 1806 ; d. Harris- 
burg, Penn., 1884. Studied at Columbia College, 
and practised law in New York. Was associate 
editor of the New York " American ; " founded 
the "Knickerbocker Magazine," 1833; editor 
and owner of the "American Monthly;" 
edited the New York "Mirror" and " Literary 
World." In 1849 his mind became unbalanced, 
and the rest of his life was spent in retirement. 
Author of "A Winter in the West," 1835; 
"Wild Scenes in Forest and Prairie," 1837; 
" Vanderlyn," 1837; " Graj'slaer, " 1840. His 
" Poems " complete appeared in 1873. 



8oo 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



HOLLAND, Josiah Gilbert, b. Belcher- 
town, Mass., 24 July, 1819; d. New York, 
N. Y., 12 Oct., 1881. He practised medicine, 
and was engaged in educational work, until 
1849, when he joined the editorial staff of the 
"Springfield (Mass.) Republican," with which 
paper he was associated until 186(3. During 
this editorship his popular ' ' Timothy Tit- 
comb's Letters" appeared in the "Repub- 
lican " and were reissued in book-forra in 
1858. ' ' Bitter Sweet, ' ' 1858, ' ' Katrina, "1867, 
and " The Mistress of the Manse," 1874, poems 
of home life, proved equal favorites with the 
people. His other poetical works were " The 
Marble Prophecy, and Other Poems," 1872; 
" Garnered Sheaves," a collective edition, 1873 ; 
and "The Puritan's Guest, and Other Poems." 
Dr. Holland was the projector of "Scribner's 
Monthly," afterwards the " Century Maga- 
zine," which he edited from its establishment, 
in 1870, until his death. Among his novels, 
some of which were published serially in the 
magazine, are : " Miss Gilbert's Career," 1860 ; 
"Arthur Bonnicastle," 1873; and "Nicholas 
Minturn," 1876. 

HOLMES, Oliver Wendell, b. Cambridge, 
Mass., 29 Aug., 1809 ; d. Boston, 7 Oct., 1894. 
His father, Abiel Holmes, was pastor of the 
First Church, Cambridge, and author of his- 
torical and religious works. The son was edu- 
cated at Andover and Harvard. His poem 
"Old Ironsides," in the Boston "Advertiser," 
saved the frigate Constitution from destruc- 
tion, and was the first of note that he published ; 
although a few other verses had crept into 
print. He gave up law for medicine, and in 
1834 published a remarkable essay on puer- 
peral fever, doing away with established views 
on the subject. In 1836, after more than two 
years of study in America, and three in the 
hospitals of Edinburgh and Paris, he took his 
medical degree, and in the same year published 
his first volume of " Poems." In 1839 he be- 
came professor of anatomy and physiology at 
Dartmouth. In 1840 he married Amelia Lee 
Jackson, and established a practice in Boston. 
From 1847 to 1882 he was Parkraan professor 
of anatomy and physiology at Harvard, and 
then was made professor emeritus. Lowell, as 
editor of the " Atlantic Monthly," was one of 
the first to recognize his essential genius. In 
1857 he began in that magazine, just founded, 
the series published in book-form in 1859, with 
the title "The Autocrat of the Breakfast- 
Table." " The Professor at the Breakfast- 
Table " followed in 1860; "The Poet at the 
Breakfast-Table " in 1873. The novels " Elsie 
Venner " and " The Guardian Angel " appeared 
in 1861 and 1868. Certain features of the latter 
were far in advance of the times, and its publi- 
cation in the " Atlantic Monthly " temporarily 
diminished its circulation. Among his other 
works in prose are "Lectures on the English 
Poets of the Nineteenth Century," first deliv- 
ered in 1852 ; "Soundings from the Atlantic," 
1863; "Mechanism in Thought and Morab," 



1871; "John Lothrop Motley," 1878; "Life 
of Ralph Waldo Emerson," 1884 ;" A Mortal 
Antipathy," novel, 1885; "The New Portr 
folio," 1886 ; " Our Hundred Days in Europe," 
1887; "Over the Teacups," 1890. His verse 
includes _" Urania," 1846; "Astraea," 1850; 
"Songs in Many Keys," 1861; "Humorous 
Poems," 1865; "Songs of Many Seasons," 
1874; "The School-Boy," 1878; "The Iron 
Gate, and Other Poems," 1880 ; " Before the 
Curfew, and Other Poems," 1888. Dr. Holm^es, 
above all others the poet and wit of Boston, — 
his " hub of the solar system," — held for half 
a century a unique position. At the Atlantic 
Monthly Breakfast given to him on his 70th 
birthday, 1879, his fellow authors of distinction, 
young and old, gathered to render him their 
tributes in speech and writing, to which his 
own response, "The Iron Gate," remains a 
model of that English poetry, half g:rave, half 
gay, in which he was without a peer — and was 
revered as the master by its makers on both 
sides of the Atlantic. Cp. " Poets of America," 
chap. viii. [l. c. b.] 

HONEYWOOD, St. John, lawyer, b. 
Leicester, Mass., 1763 ; d. Salem, N. Y., 1798. 
Graduated from Yale, 1782. Studied law at 
Albany, and practised at Salem until his death. 
One of the presidential electors when John 
Adams succeeded Washington. His " Poems " 
appeared posthuniously in 1801, 

HOPKINSON, Joseph, lawyer, b. Phila- 
delphia, Penn., 1770 ; d. Philadelphia, Penn., 
1842. A distinguished lawyer, statesman, and 
scholar. His fame rests chiefly on his national 
song, "Hail, Columbia," written, to the tune 
of "The President's March," in 1798. Intense 
feeling was rife in America at that time with 
respect to the war then raging between France 
and England. The famous ode, sung first at the 
benefit performance of a Philadelphia actor,, 
was composed with the object of inspiring in 
the hostile factions a patriotism which should 
transcend the bitterness of party feeling. 

HORTON, George, journalist, b. Fair- 
ville, N. Y., 1859. Early removed to Michi- 
gan, and in 1878 graduated from its University. 
Has been engaged in journalism for some years, 
and at present is literary editor of the Chicago 
"Times-Herald." Mr. Horton was American 
consul-general at Athens during President Cleve- 
land's second term. His principal works are 
"Songs of the Lowly," 1892; "In Unknown 
Seas," verse, 1895; " Aphroessa," verse, 1897; 
"A Fair Brigand," 1899. 

HOUGHTON", George Washington 
Wright, b. Cambridge, Mass., 1850 ; d. Yon- 
kers, N. Y., 1891. He became a resident of 
New York, where he was engaged for some 
years in editing a trade paper. His books of 
verse include ' ' Songs from over the Sea, ' ' 1874 ; 
"The Legend of St. Olaf's Kirk," 1880; and 
" Niagara and Other Poems," 1882. 

HOVEY, Richard, b. Normal, III., 4 Mav, 
1864 ; d. New York, N. Y., 24 Feb., 1900. Grad- 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



8oi 



tiated at Dartmouth, 1885, and studied at the 
General Theological Seminary, New York. He 
■was for some time lay assistant at a New York 
ritualistic cliureh, but abandoned his intention 
to enter the ministry, and his subsequent career 
was by turns tliat of a journalist, actor, drama- 
tist, and English lecturer and professor. His 
Dartmouth Ode was accepted by his Alma 
Mater after a prolonged competition. Passing 
some years abroad, he was impressed by the 
methods of the latter-day French and Belgian 
schools, and familiarized himself with their 
poems and plays. He made the only transla- 
tion of Maeterlinck j>ublished in this country. 
His original works include " The Laurel : an 
Ode," 1889; " Launcelot and Guenevere, a 
Poem in Dramas " (comprising " The Quest of 
Merlin," " The Marriage of Guenevere," and 
"The Birth of Galahad "), 1891-98, a series 
in which the Arthurian legends are treated in 
a fresh manner, with daring biit imaginative 
innovations ; ' ' Seaward, Elegy upon the Death 
of Thomas William Parsons," 1893, which fol- 
lows the idyllic Sicilian strain, like the elegies 
of Shelley, Arnold, and Swinburne, and of 
Roberts and Woodberry in America. In 1893, 
also, "Songs from Vagabondia," by Hovey 
and his friend, Bliss Carman, appeared, and 
were heartily welcomed for their blithe lyrical 
quality, and their zest of youth and freedom. 
"More Songs from Vagabondia" followed in 
1896, and in 1898 Hovey's "Along the Trail," 
a collection of his miscellaneous poems. In the 
same year the last of his dramatic series men- 
tioned heretofore ("The Birth of Galahad") 
showed his advance in diction and dramatic 
power. But his highest and most distinctive 
effort, in his own mind and that of his friends, 
was " Taliesin : A Masque," which appeared, 
1896, in " Poet-Lore," and was ready in book- 
form at the time of his death, in the spring 
of 1900. This work, cast in dramatic form, is 
not " of the earth, earthy," and may be thought 
open to the gloss made by Mary Shelley upon 
her husband's " Witch of Atlas," as "discard- 
ing human interest ; " but it is sheer poetry or 
nothing, the proof of an ear and a voice which 
it seems ill to have lost just at the moment of 
their completed training. Hovey, in fact, was 
slow to mature, and when taken off, showed 
more promise than at any time before. He 
thought very well of himself, not without rea- 
son, and felt that he had enjoyed his wander- 
jahr to the full, and that the serious work of 
his life was straight before him. He was rid- 
ding himself in a measure of certain affecta- 
tions that told against him, and at last had a 
chance, with a University position, to utilize 
the fruits of a good deal of hard study and re- 
flection, while nearing some best field for the 
exercise of his sjiecific gift. That his aim was 
high is shown even by his failures ; and in his 
death there is no doubt that America has lost 
one of her best-equipped lyrical and dramatic 
writers. This somewhat extended note may 
well be accorded to the dead singer, who, on 
the threshold of the new century that beckoned 



to him, was bidden to halt and abide with the 
" inheritors of unfulfilled renown." [e. c. S.] 

HOWARTH, Ellen Clementine (Doran), 
b. Cooperstown, N. Y., 1827 ; d. Trenton, N._ J., 
1899. When a child of seven she worked in a 
factory. She married Joseph Howarth and 
lived in Trenton, N. J. Author of " The Wind 
Harp, and Other Poems," 1864; "Poems," 
1867. 

HOWE, Julia (Ward), b. New York, 
N. Y., 27 May, 1819. A daughter of Samuel 
Ward, a banker of New York, in which city 
she received her education under private tutors. 
She was married in 1843 to Dr. S. G. Howe, 
first superintendent of the Perkins Institute for 
the Blind, and made her residence in Boston, 
She edited with him " The Commonwealth," 
of that city, an anti-slavery paper, and took 
part as lecturer and writer in the furtherance 
of many public movements in behalf of female 
suffrage, prison reforms, and other causes. 
" Passion Flowers," 1854, was her first volume 
of poems, and was succeeded by several trage- 
dies and books of verse. " Later Lyrics," 
1866; "From Sunset Ridge, Poems New and 
Old," 1898 ; and books of travel, social science, 
and biography are among her writings. Her 
"Battle Hymn of the Republic" will last as 
long as the Civil War is remembered in history. 
It was written in 1861, after the author's observ- 
ing, in the camps near Washington, the march- 
ing of the enthusiastic young soldiers to the 
song " John Brown's Body." Mrs. Howe's 
words were at once adopted and sung through- 
out the North. 

HOW^E, Mark Antony De Wolfe, b. Bris- 
tol, R. I., 1864. Educated at Lehigh and Har- 
vard universities. Some of his works are : 
" Shadows," 1897 ; " Phillips Brooks," 1899. 
Editor of "The Memory of Lincoln," 1899, 
and an associate editor on the staff of the 
" Youth's Companion." 

HOWELL, Elizabeth (Lloyd), b. Phila- 
delphia, Penn., 1811 ; d. Wernersville, Penn., 
1896. Her family were Quakers, but she be- 
came an Episcopalian on her marriage, in 1853, 
to Robert Howell, of Philadeljjhia. Her poems, 
some of which appeared in " The Wheatsheaf," 
1852, are not numerous. The one given in this 
Anthology is the best known. 

HOWELLS, Mildred, b. Cambridge, Mass., 
187-. The younger daughter of William Dean 
Howells. Miss Howells as a child was intro- 
duced to the public through " A Little Girl 
among the Old Masters," unique drawings of 
her youthful impressions of early Italian art, 
with preface and comment by her father. She 
has since relied upon her own pen, as well as 
her pencil, for her artistic position. 

HOW^ELLS, "William Dean, novelist and 
poet, b. Martin's Ferry, Belmont Co., 0.,1 Mar., 
1837. He learned to set type at Hamilton, 0;, 
in the office of the paper his father edited. In 
1858 he became one of the editors of the Co- 
lumbus " Ohio State Journal." In 1860 he pub- 



802 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



lished " Poems of Two Friends " (with John 
Piatt), and a life of Abraham Lincoln. He 
was U. S. consul at Venice, 1861-65. His 
"Venetian Life," 1866, at once brought him 
into repute, and from the date of its appear- 
ance he has maintained his eminent position 
among those authors to whose steadfast and 
meritorious labors the advances of American 
literature since the Civil War are mainly due. 
"Italian Journeys" and a collection of his 
" Poems " followed in 1867. After service on 
the New York " Nation," he edited " The 
Atlantic Monthly," 1871-81 ; " The Editor's 
Study" of "Harper's Magazine," 1886-91; 
and "The Cosmopolitan," 1892. Among his 
works are "Suburban Sketches," 1868; "No 
Love Lost, a Poem of Travel," 1868 ; " Their 
Wedding Journey," 1871; "A Chance Ac- 
quaintance," 1873, and many subsequent 
novels : his first comedy, "The Parlor Car," 
1876 ; '' A Little Girl among the Old Masters " 
(illustrated by his daughter Mildred), 1884; 
" Tuscan Cities," 1885 ; " Poems," 1886 ; 
" Modern Italian Poets," 1887 ; " A Traveller 
from Altruria," 1894; "My Literary Passion," 
1895 ; " Stops of Various Quills," poems, 1895 ; 
"Impressions and Experiences," autobiograph- 
ical, 1896; "Landlord at Lion's Head," 1896; 
"A Parting and a Meeting," 1896; "A 
Previous Engagement," 1897. He has edited 
" George Fuller: His Life and Works," 1886; 
"Library of Universal Adventure, by Sea 
and Land " (with T. S. Perry), 1888; and the 
" Poems of George Pellew," 1892. Mr. HoweUs 
was unquestionably the founder of the latter- 
day natural school of American fiction, in 
which truth to every-day life is given preced- 
ence, while rhetoric, forced situations, and the 
arts of the melodramatist are sedulously 
avoided. But pathos, genuine feeling, human 
nature, and a delicate vein of very characteris- 
tic humor are at his own command. His later 
writings have been pervaded by a lofty spirit 
of humanitarianism, tinged with the sadness of 
a heart deeply moved by the enigma of life and 
the unequal distributions of sorrow and welfare. 

[e. c. s.] 
HOWELLS, Winifred, b. Venice, Italy, 
1863 ; d. Mass., 1889. Eldest child of William 
Dean HoweUs. She was a girl of endearing 
beauty and promise, gifted with insight, and 
exhibiting the poet's sensitiveness and reserve. 
A few of her lyrics have been embodied in her 
father's touching and exquisitely written me- 
morial of her life and character. (Cp. the son- 
net by Mrs. Moulton, p. 811.) 

HOWLAND, Edward, socialist, b. Charles- 
ton, S. C, 1832 ; d. Camp La Logia, Topolo- 
bampo Colony, Sinaloa, Mexico, 1890. He was 
a graduate of Harvard, and, after many years 
of business and literary pursuits, became inter- 
ested in the socialistic movement which cidmi- 
nated in establishment of a colony in the Fuerte 
valley, to which he removed with his wife, 
the well-known writer and reformer, Marie 
Howland, in 1888. Mr. and Mrs. Howland 



edited " The Credit Foncier of Sinaloa," the 
colony organ, at Hammonton, N. J., and in 
Mexico, from 1885 until his death. 

HOYTjKalph, clergyman and philanthro- 
pist, b. New York, N. Y,, 1806 ; d. there, 1878. 
Entered the Protestant Episcopal nainistry, 
1842. Published "The Chant of Life, and 
Other Poems ; " " Echoes of Memory and Emo- 
tion," poenas, 1859; "Sketches of Life and 
Landscape," poems, 1852, new ed. 1873, 

HUGHES, Rupert, b. Lancaster, Mo., 1872. 
He graduated at Adelbert College, Cleveland, 
O., and took a post-graduate course at Yale 
University. Has been on the editorial staffs of 
" Godey's Magazine" and "The Criterion." 
His boy's book, " TheLakerim Athletic Club," 
appeared first in the "St. Nicholas," and was 
published in book form in 1899. 

HUNTINGTON, William Heed, D. D., b. 
Lowell, Mass., 1838. A Protestant Episcopal 
clergyman, rector of All Saints Church, Wor- 
cester, Mass., 1862-83; and of Grace Church, 
New York, since 1883. Author of several reli- 
gious works in prose, and of " Sonnets and a 
Dream," 1899. 

HUTCHINSON, EUen Maekay. — See 
E. M. H. Cortissoz. 

HUTCHISON, Percy Adams, Harvard 
University, Class of 1899. 

HUTTON, Laurence, b. New York, N. Y., 
8 Aug., 1843. Of Scottish descent. He began 
life as a merchant, but since 1870 has been an 
active and scholarly man of letters, delighting 
in the society of his colleagues, and fuU of 
poetic devotion to the traditions of authors and 
literature. He was dramatic critic of the 
N. Y. "Evening Mail," and edited the depart- 
ment of " Literary Notes " in " Harper's Maga- 
zine," Author of " Plays and Players," 1875 ; 
the_ unique series of "Literary Landmarks," 
which began with those of London, 1885, and 
have extended to 1898 ; " Artists of the Nine- 
teenth Century," with Mrs. Waters. Editor 
of "The American Actor" series, 1881-82, 
Mr. Hutton of late years has been prominent 
in the literary activities of his native city, 
and was a founder of the Authors Club, and 
closely associated with Edwin Booth in the or- 
ganization of "The Players," and a member of 
the Council of the Am. Copyright League. Is 
now resident at Princeton, N. J., and has 
given to its University his collection of the 
Life and Death Masks of celebrities. 

" IDAS." — See John Elton Wayland. 

INGALIiS, John James, b. Middleton, 
Mass., 1833 ; d. 1900. After admission to the 
bar, he removed to Atchison. Kan., and edited 
the " Atchison Champion " from 1862 to 1865. 
He was elected to the State Senate, 1862, and 
to the United States Senate, 1873, 1879, 1885. 

INGHAM, John Hall, lawyer, b. Philadel- 
phia, Penn., 1860. His poems contributed to 
magazines have never been published in col- 
lective form. 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



803 



"INNSLBY, Owen."— See Lucy White 
Jennison. 



" IRONQUILIi." — See 
Ware. 



Eugene Fitch 



JACKSON". Helen Maria (Fiske), " H. 
H.," b. Amherst, Mass., 18 Oct., 1831 ; d. San 
Francisco, Cal., 12 Aug., 1885. She was edu- 
cated at Ipswich, Mass., and married at twenty- 
one to Captain Edward Hunt, U. S. armiy, who 
died in 1863. In 1875 she became the wife of 
William S. Jackson, a banker of Colorado 
Springs. In 1883 she received the appointment 
of special examiner into the condition of the 
Mission Indians of California, her book, "A 
Century of Dishonor," in behalf of the Indians, 
having appeared in 1881. Her novel, " Ra- 
mona," on the same subject, followed in 1884. 
Two other novels, " Mercy Philbrick's Choice," 
1876, and " Hetty's Strange History," 1877, had 
been published in the " No Name " series ; 
"Verses by H. H.," in 1870; "Sonnets and 
Lyi'ics," in 1876. She is thought to have 
written some if not most of the " Saxe Holm 
Stories," published in " Seribner's Monthly" 
and afterwards in two volumes. 

JAMES, Alice Archer (Sewall), illustrator, 
b. Glendale, Ohio, 187-. Daughter of Frank 
Sewall, q. v. Studied art in the foreign cap- 
itals and at Washington. Author of " Ode to 
Girlhood, and Other Poems," 1899. 

JANVIER, Margaret Thomson, "Mar- 
garet Vandegrift," b. New Orleans, La., 1845. 
A sister of Thomas A. Janvier. Among her 
books for children are : " Under the Dog-Star," 
1881 ; " The Absent-Minded Fairy, and Other 
Verses," 1883; "The Dead Doll, and Other 
Verses," 1888. The beautiful dramatic lyric 
given in this volume has been refused publica- 
tion in the "Century," "Atlantic," "Har- 
per's," and other leading periodicals — on what 
grounds of either criticism or policy it might 
be difficult for a lover of genuine poetry to 
determine. [b. c. s.] 

JENKS, Tudor, editor, b. Brooklyn, N. Y., 
1857. Graduated from Yale in 1878, and from 
the law school of Columbia College, 1880. 
Practised law in New York City until 1887, 
when he joined the editorial staff of the " St. 
Nicholas Magazine." Author of " Century 
World's Fair Book," 1893; " Imaginotions : 
Truthless Tales," 1894. 

JENNISON, Lucy White, " Owen Inn- 
sley," b. Newton, Mass., 1850. She is the 
daughter of Samuel Jennison, of Boston, in 
which city she received her education. She 
has resided in Italy for a number of years. 
Author of "Love Poems and Sonnets," 1882, 
and of many contributions to periodicals. 

JEWETT. Sophie, "Ellen Burroughs," 
educator, b. Moravia, N. Y., 1861. Has resided 
chiefly in Buffalo. Since 1889 has been teach- 
ing in Wellesley College, where she is an asso- 
ciate professor in the department of EngUsh 



literature. Author of " The Pilgrim, and 
Other Poems," 1896. 

"JOHNSON, Benj. F., of Boone." — See 
James Whitconib Riley. 

JOHNSON, Charles Frederick, b. New 
York, N. Y. , 1836. He was graduated from Yale 
at the age of nineteen, and is the distinguished 
professor of English literature at Trinity Col- 
lege, Hartford, Conn. He has written " Three 
Americans and Three Englishmen," lectures, 
1886; "English Words," 1891 ; "What can I 
do for Brady, and Other Verse," 1897. 

JOHNSON, Robert Underwood, b. Wash- 
ington, D. C, 12 Jan., 1853. Graduated at Earl- 
ham College, Ind. Joined the staff of the " Cen- 
tury Magazine," 1873, and became associate 
editor, 1881. Edited, with Clarence C. Buel, 
the "Century" war series and the resulting 
volumes entitled " Battles and Leaders of the 
Civil War,'' 1887-88, and persuaded Gen. 
Grant to write his memoirs. For his services, 
as secretary of the American Copyright League, 
in behalf of the passage of the International 
Copyright bill of 1891, Mr. Johnson was deco- 
rated by the French and Italian governments. 
— " The Winter Hour, and Other Poems," 1891; 
"Songs of Liberty, and Other Poems," 1897. 

JOHNSON", Rossiter, man of letters, b. 
Rochester, N. _Y., 27 Jan., 1840. A graduate 
of the University of Rochester. He was asso- 
ciate editor of the Rochester "Democrat," 
1864-68, and editor of the Concord, N. H., 
"Statesman,'' 1869-72. Since 1872 he has re- 
sided chiefly in New York City, where he has 
taken a leading part in the work and convoca- 
tions of the literary guild. With John Denison 
Champlin and George Cary Eggleston he edited 
with great success the costly and unique book 
issued by the Authors Club, " Liber Scrip- 
torum," 1893. Author of "Phaeton Rogers," 
a story for boys, 1881 ; " Idler and Poet," 
poems, 1833; " A History of the War of Se- 
cession," 1888; "Three Decades," verse, 1895. 
Editor of "Famous Single Poems;" " Play- 
Day Poems ; " the series, "Little Classics," 18 
vols. 1874-77 ; and Appleton's "Annual Cyclo- 
paedia," from 1883. 

JOHNSON, Samuel, clergyman, b. Salem, 
Mass., 1822; d. North Andover, Mass., 1882. 
He was a graduate of Harvard, and became 
pastor of a Unitarian church at Salem, Mass. 
He edited, with Samuel Longfellow, "Hymns 
for Public and Private Devotion," 1846, and 
was himself a writer of religious verse, also 
publishing several works on Oriental theology. 

JOHNSON, 'William Martin, physician, b. 
ajbout 1771 ; d. Jamaica, L. I., N. Y., 1797. 
Specimens of his poems appeared in articles 
contributed by J. H. Payne to the " Demo- 
cratic Review," 1838. 

JORDAN, David Starr, naturalist and edu- 
cator, b. Gainesville, N. Y., 1851. A graduate 
of Cornell University. Dr. Jordan was presi- 
dent of the Indiana University, 1885-91, and 
resigned to become president of the Leland 



8o4 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



Stanford, Junior, University. He is the atithor 
of various scientific works ; also of " The Story 
of the Innumerable Company, and Other 
Verses," 1896; "Barbara, and Other Poems," 
1897. 

JUDSON, Emily (Chubbuck), "Fanny 
Forester," b. Eaton, N. Y., 1817 ; d. Hamilton, 
N. Y., 1854. She contributed to the N. Y. 
" Mirror," 1844-46, and in the latter year some 
of her stories were collected under the title of 
" Alderbrook." In 1846 she became the wife 
of the missionary Adoniram Judson, and ac- 
companied him to Bengal, where she lived until 
his death, 1850. Mrs. Judson published a 
number of remembered prose works, and " An 
Olio of Domestic Verses," 1852. 

KEELEK, Charles Augustus, ornitholo- 
gist, b. Milwaukee, Wis., 1871. Educated at 
the University of California. In addition to 
several prose works he has published ' ' A Light 
through the Storm," verse, 1894; "The Pro- 
mise of the Ages," 1896 ; "The Siege of the 
Golden City," 1896; "A Season's Sowing," 
1899. 

KEMBLE, Frances Anne, actress, b. Lon- 
don, Eng., 1809 ; d. there, 1893. Daughter of 
Charles Kemble, and niece of Mrs, Siddons. 
Her first appearance was as Juliet, in Covent 
Garden, 1829. In 1832 she camie to America, 
and was married to Pierce* Butler in 1834, 
obtaining a divorce in 1839. Gave Shakespear- 
ean readings, 1849-68. She wrote " Francis the 
First," a drama, produced in 1832* "Journal 
of a Residence in America," 1835 ; ' The Star 
of Seville," a play, 1837; ''Poems," 1844 and 
1859 ; " Records of Later Life " and " Notes on 
Some of Shakespeare's Plays," 1882. As a 
citizen of this country, Fanny Kemble may well 
be represented in the present collection by her 
stanzas, the "Lament of a Mocking Bird." 
See, also, " A Victorian Anthology," p. 66. 

KENYOlxr, James Benjamin, clergyman, 
b. Frankfort, N. _Y., 1858. Entered the Meth- 
odist Episcopal ministry, 1878, and subsequently 
became pastor of a church at Watertown, 
N. Y. Some of his volumes of poetry are 
" In Realms of Gold," 1887 ; " At the Gate of 
Dreams," 1892 ; " An Oaten Pipe," 1895. 

KEPPEL, Frederick, art-connoisseur, b. 
TuUow, Ireland, 1846. Of English parentage, 
and Holland Dutch extraction, being a de- 
scendant of the first Duke of Albemarle. Re- 
sided as a child in England, but later removed 
to New York City, where he is engaged in 
business. 

" KERB, Orpheus C." — See Robert Henry 
Newell. 

KEY, Francis Scott, lawyer, b. Frederick, 
Md., 1779; d. Washington, D. C, 1848. Edu- 
cated at St. John's College, Annapolis. Began 
practising law at Frederick, Md., in 1801, but 
removed some years later to Washington, where 
he became district attorney. Is best known 
as the author of the " Star Spangled Banner," 
thus far at the head of American national songs. 



During the bombardment of Fort McHenry, 
Mr. Key was detained as a prisoner on board 
the British fleet. All night he watched the 
engagement with keenest anxiety. The now 
historic piece was written next morning, in- 
stantly printed, and sung all over the country 
to the air of "Anacreon in Heaven." With 
other patriotic and devotional songs it was pub- 
lished after his death in a volume of his 
"Poems," 1857. 

KIMBALL, Haimah Parker, b. Boston, 
Mass., 186-. She has published three volumes 
of verse, " The Cup of Life," 1892 ; " Soul and 
Sense," 1896; "Victory, and Other Poems," 

1897. 

KIMBALL, Harriet McEwen, b. Ports- 
mouth, N. H., 1834. She has been long devoted 
to charitable work, establishing a cottage hos- 
pital in her native city, and has published 
"Hymns," 1867; "Swallow-Flights of Song," 
1874 ; "The Blessed Company of all Faithful 
People," 1879 ; and " Poems," complete, 1889. 
Miss Kimball may be termed the foremost 
Episcopalian writer in America of devotional 
poems. 

KING-, Edward, b. Middlefield. Mass., 
1848 ; d. Brooklyn, N. Y., 1896. He went to 
Paris in 1868, as a correspondent for American 
journals. Author of " My Paris : French 
Character Sketches," 1868 ; "'The Great 
South," 1875 ; " Echoes from the Orient," 
poemsj 1880; "The Gentle Savage," novel, 
1883 ; A Venetian Lover," poems, 1887 ; " Jo- 
seph Zalmonah, " 1893, a striking novel directed 
against the "sweat-shops " of the East Side of 
New York City; "Under the Red Flag," 
189-. 

KINNEY, Elizabeth Clementine (Dodge), 
b. New York, N. Y., 1810 ; d. Summit, N. J., 
1889. Granddaughter of Aaron Cleveland. 
She contributed poetry to the "Knicker- 
bocker Magazine," "Blackwood's," and other 
periodicals. In 1830 she was married to Ed- 
mimd Burke Stedman of Hartford, and after 
his death, 1836, lived at Plainfield, N. J. She 
was married, 1841, to William B. Kinney, who 
founded the Newark, N. J., " Advertiser " and 
was appointed, 1851, minister to the Court of 
Turin. While in Europe, where she remained 
for fourteen years, she wrote " Felicita, a Met- 
rical Romance," 1855. After her return to 
America, 1865, she published her " Poems," 
1867, and "Bianca Capello, a Tragedy," 1873. 
At Florence, Mrs. Kinney was an intimate 
friend of the Brownings, and a leader in the 
American and English circles. She has left 
her " Reminiscences," which are still unpub- 
lished. 

KNOWLES, Frederic Lawrence, b. Law- 
rence, Mass., 1869. Son of Rev. D. C. Knowles, 
D. D. Associated with leading houses of the 
Boston book -trade. Mr. Knowles has pub- 
lished " Practical Hints for Young Writers," 
1897; "Cap and Gown, Second Series," 1897; 
" Golden Treasury of American Songs and 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



805 



Lyrics," 1897 ; " A Kipling Primer," 1899, re- 
published in England ; " On Life's Stairway," 
verse, 1900. 

KOOPMAM", Harry Lyman, librarian, b. 
Freeport, Me., 1860. Graduated at Colby Col- 
lege, and took M. A. degree at Harvard. He 
filled positions as cataloguer at various Eastern 
libraries until his appointment as librarian of 
Brown University, 1893. Author of " Orestes, 
and Other Poems," 1888; "Woman's Will, 
with Other Poems," 1888; "Morrow-Songs," 
1898, and catalogues of the Brown and other 
libraries. 

LiAMAB, Mirabeau Bonaparte, b. Louis- 
ville, Ga., 1798 ; d. Richmond, Tex., 1859. 
Gen. Lamar engaged in the war for the inde- 
pendence of Texas, of which, as a republic, he 
was president from 1838 to 1841. His "Verse 
Memorials " appeared in 1857. 

liANIEE, Sidney, b. Macon, Ga., 3 Feb., 
1842 ; d. Lynn, N. C, 7 Sept., 1881. Graduated 
at Oglethorpe College, Midway, Ga., 1860. He 
was among the earliest volunteers in the Con- 
federate army, and toward the close of the war 
was taken prisoner while trying to run a block- 
ade. The pulmonary weakness which resulted 
in his death is perhaps traceable to his five 
months of captivity at Point Lookout. After 
teaching school in Alabama, he stiidied and 
practised law at Macon, with his father, Rob- 
ert S. Lanier. Being an excellent musician, 
equally devoted to the practice and theory of 
music, the poet was first flute in the Peabody 
symphony concerts of Baltimore, in which city 
he spent the last years of his life. His first ven- 
ture in literature was " Tiger Lilies," 1867, a 
novel founded on army life. His poem, " Corn," 
in " Lippincott's Magazine," struck a new note, 
and two years later he was chosen to write the 
Centennial Ode for the exposition of 1876. He 
defined and ilhistrated his original conception 
of the relations between music and poetry in 
two courses of lectures, 1879-81, at Johns flop- 
kins University ; and in " The Science of Eng- 
lish Verse," his main work in prose, 1880. 
Among his other works are "Florida: Its 
Scenery, Climate, and History," 1876 ; " Po- 
ems," 1877 ; the series beeinning with " The 
Boy's Froissart," 1878; "The English Novel, 
and the Principles of Its Development," 1883. 
His " Poems," edited by his wife, with a me- 
moir by William Hayes Ward, were published 
about three years after his lamented death. 
Cp. " Poets of America," 449-451 ; also, " The 
Nature and Elements of Poetry," pp. 62, 196, 
253, 282. [l. C. b.] 

LANIGAN, George Thomas, b. St. 
Charles, P. Q., Canada, 1845 ; d. Philadelphia, 
Penn., 1886. Founded, with Robert Graham, 
the humorous Montreal "Free Lance," now 
" The Evening Star, " and was on the staff of 
papers in New York and Chicago. He pub- 
lished " Canadian Ballads," 1864 ; " Fables 
Out of the World, by George Washington 
.(Esop," 1878. 



LARCOM, Lucy, b. Beverly, Mass., 1826 ; 
d. Boston, Mass., 1893. She was employed in 
the mills at Lowell, and became a literary pro- 
t^g^ of Whittier, through contributions to his 
paper. Was assistant editor of "Our Young 
Folks " from 1866 to 1874. Among her books 
of verse are "Poems," 1868; "An Idyl of 
Work," 1875; "Wild Roses of Cape Ann," 
1880; and " Poetical Works, " 1885. 

LABREMORE, "Wilbur, lawyer, b. New 
York, N. Y., 1855. Editor of N. Y. "Law 
Journal ' ' since 1890, and author of a volume of 
verse, "Mother Carey's Chickens," 1888. 

LATHROP, George Parsons, b. Oahu, 
Hawaiian Islands, 25 Aug., 1851 ; d. New York, 
N. Y., 19 April, 1898. He received his educa- 
tion in New York and in Dresden, Germany. 
From 1875 to 1877 he was assistant editor of 
the "Atlantic Monthly," and filled other edi- 
torial positions. He removed to New York in 
1883. The same year he was concerned in 
the organization of the American Copyright 
League, of which he was secretary for two 
years. Some of his published volumes are 
" Rose and Rooftree," verse, 1875 ; "A Study 
of Hawthorne," 1876 ;" Gettysburg, a Battle 
Ode," 1888 ; "Dreams and Days," verse, 1892, 
and several novels, including "An Echo of 
Passion," 1882, and "Newport," 1884. 

LATHROP, Rose (Hawthorne), b. Lenox, 
Mass., 185-. The daughter of Nathaniel Haw- 
thorne. Her childhood was passed in Europe, 
where she received her education. In 1871 she 
was married to George Parsons Lathrop. Be- 
sides many contributions of fiction, poetry, and 
literary articles to the magazines, she has pub- 
lished "Along the Shore," verse, 1888; " An- 
nals of the Georgetown Convent " (with G. P. 
Lathrop), 1894, and " Memories of Hawthorne," 
1897. In 189- Mrs. Lathrop established in New 
York a home for the care of destitute women 
sufPering from cancer. 

LA^WTON", 'William Cranston, educator, 
b. New Bedford, Mass., 1853. Graduated at 
Harvard University, and afterwards studied 
and travelled in Europe. For some years he 
has been a professor in the Adelphi College, 
Brooklyn. A contributor of classical essays to 
the periodicals, and author of " Three Dramas 
of Euripides," 1889; "Art and Humanity in 
Homer," 1896; "New England Poets," 1898 ; 
" Successors of Homer," 1898 ; and of a volume 
of verse, " Folia Dispersa," 1895. 

LAZARUS, Emma, b. New York, N. Y., 
1849 ; d. there, 1887. Of Portuguese Jewish 
ancestry. She was educated at 'home, and 
began the composition of poetry at the age of 
fourteen. Her "Poems and Translations" 
was published in 1867, and was followed by 
" Admetus, and Other Poems," 1871. " Alide," 
a romance in prose drawn from Goethe's auto- 
biography, appeared in 1874. " The Spagno- 
letto," a tragedy, 1876, received high praise 
from Emerson. In 1883 Miss Lazarus, influ- 
enced by the persecutions of the Jews in Russia, 



8o6 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



devoted herself to a literary crusade in behalf 
of her race, and her subsequent writings were 
chiefly connected with Jewish themes. The 
" Dance to Death," a drama of persecution in 
the twelfth century, was inspired by the Rus- 
sian crisis, the results of which she witnessed 
during her work among the refugees in New 
York. Her later volumes include "Poems 
and Ballads of Heine," translations, 1881 ; and 
"Songs of a Semite," 1882. _A complete edi- 
tion of her verse, with a m.emoir, was published 
in 1888, 

LEARNED, "Walter, b. New London, 
Conn., 1847. He is connected with the Savings 
Bank of New London, and has published 
"Between Times," poems, 1889; and trans- 
lated "Ten Tales from CopiJ^e," 1890. Has 
edited "A Treasury of American Verse," 1898. 

LEGAB]^, James Mathews, b. Charles- 
ton, N,>C., 1823; d. Aiken,_S. C, 1859. He 
was an inventor, and contributed verse and 
prose articles to the magazines. " Orta-Undis, 
and Other Poems," was published in 1847. 

LEIGH, Amy. An American song- writer, 
resident in California. Her song "If I but 
Knew," has been set to music by Wilson G. 
Smith. 

LEISER, Joseph, rabbi, b. Canandaigaia, 
N. Y., 1873. Of East-German Jewish parent- 
age. Graduated at the University of Chicago. 
In 1896 he became the rabbi of a Jewish con- 
gregation in Springfield, 111. Author of "Be- 
fore the Dawn," poems, 1898. 

LELAND, Charles Godfrey, b. Philadel- 
phia, Penn., 15 Aug., 1824. He was graduated 
at Princeton, and studied at German and French 
universities. He practised law, and engaged 
in literary work and journalism in his native 
city imtil 1869, after which he resided chiefly 
in London, giving much time to the study of 
life among the gypsies, Indians, Italian witches, 
etc. In 1880 Mr. Leland visited America and 
devoted four years here to the introduction of 
the minor arts as a branch of instruction in the 
public schools. He wrote many books and 
manuals on these subjects. Among his vol- 
umes of verse are "Meister Karl's Sketch- 
Book,''^ 1851; "Hans Breitmann's Ballads," 
1868 ; " The Music Lesson of Confucius, and 
Other Poems," 1871 ; and "Songs of the Sea 
and Lays of the Land," 1895. Mr. Leland has 
also, among other works, made a translation of 
Heine's " Pictures of Travel," 1855. 

LINDSEY, William, merchant, b. Fall 
River, Mass., 1858. Received his education in 
the schools of that city. Entered on a business 
life, 1877, removing to Boston, 1888. Author 
of "Apples of Istakhar," poems, 1895; "At 
Start and Finish," fiction, 1900, 

LIPPMANN, Julie Mathilde, b. Brook- 
lyn, N. Y., 186-. A contributor to periodicals, 
and author of several books for children. A 
volume of her collected poems is to appear. 



LITCHFIELD, Grace Denio, novelist, b. 
New York, N. Y., 1849. The daughter of Edwiu 

C . Litchfield. Much of her early life was spent in 
Europe. She became a resident of Washington, 

D. C, in 1888. "Mimosa Leaves," 1895, con- 
tains her collected poems. Her volumes of fic- 
tioninclude " The Knight of the Black Forest," 
1885 ; and "A Hard- Won Victory," 1888. Is 
a sister of the author Mrs. Francese Turnbull, 
of Baltimore, who, with her husband, Lawrence 
Turnbull, established the noted lecture- 
courses on Poetry, at Johns Hopkins Univer- 
sity. 

LLOYD, Beatrix Demarest, b. New York, 
N. Y., 188-. Daughter of the late David 
Demarest Lloyd, the lamented journalist and 
playwright, and herself a young writer of short 
stories, plays, and verse. Miss Lloyd is a grand- 
niece of the late Chief Justice Chase. 

LODGE, George Cabot, b. Boston, Mass., 
1873. Son of Henry Cabot Lodge. A gradu- 
ate of Harvard, 1895. — " The Song of the 
Wave, and Other Poems," 1898. 

LOIIOIS, Bussell Hillard, Columbia Uni- 
versity, Class of 1894. 

LONGFELLOW, Henry Wadsworth, b. 
Portland, Me., 27 Feb., 1807; d. Cambridge, 
Mass., 24 Mar., 1882. The most refined of our 
elder poets, and for many years the one best 
known to American and British readera as 
our pioneer of sentiment, romanticism, and 
artistic feeling. Son of Stephen Longfellow, 
whose Yorkshire ancestors emigrated about 
1675. Graduated at Bowdoin, where he en- 
tered the sophomore class in 1822, with N. Haw- 
thorne as one of his classmates. From 1826 to 
1829 he studied modern languages in France, 
Spain, Italy, Germany. He was professor of 
modern languages at Bowdoin in 1829-35. In 

1835 he revisited Europe for a course of study 
preparatory to occupying the chair of modern 
languages at Harvard, which he held from 

1836 to 1854. In 1831 he had married Miss 
Mary Potter of Portland, who died in Rotter- 
dam, 1835. In 1843 he married Miss Frances 
Appleton, the tragedy of whose sudden death, 
in 1861, cast its shadow over his rem.aining 
years. The event occurred at their home in 
Cambridge, Craigie House, which had been the 
headquarters of Washington in the siege of 
Boston. During Longfellow's visit to England 
in 1868, he received the degrees of LL. D. from 
Cambridge, and D. C. L. from Oxford. In 1884 
his bust in marble was placed in the Poets' 
Corner of Westminster Abbey. Samuel Long- 
fellow's " Life of Henry Wadsworth Longfel- 
low," and "Final Memorials," 1886-87, were 
largely compiled from his brother's diaries and 
letters. While an undergraduate, the future 
American laureate published poetry ia the Bos- 
ton " Literary Gazette," etc. ; while professor 
at Bowdoin, he wrote for the " North Amer- 
ican Review ; " and in 1833-34 contributed to 
the "New England Magazine" the papers 
called " The Schoolmaster," but forming the 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



807 



basis of " Outre-Mer, a Pilgrimage beyond the 
Sea," 1835. " Hyperion," a prose romance full 
of the spirit of youth, and charged with poetic 
sentiment, appeared in 1839, and " Voices of 
the Night" in the same year. "Ballads and 
Other Poems," 1841, coaiirmed his reputation, 
and almost every work that he gave to the 
public thereafter received a warm welcome at 
home and abroad. His subsequent works in- 
clude "Poems on Slavery," 1842; "The 
Spanish Student," drama, 1843; "The Belfry 
of Bruges, and Other Poems," 1846; "Evan- 
geline, a Tale of Acadie," 1847 (for years 
the most popular of our longer idyllic poems) ; 
"Kavanagh," tale, 1849; "The Seaside and 
the Fireside," 1850; "The Golden Legend," 
1851 ; "The Song of Hiawatha," 1855 ; "The 
Courtship of Miles Standish," 1858; "Birds 
of Passage," 1858-63; "Tales of a Wayside 
Inn," 1863; "Flower de Luce," 1867; "The 
Divine Comedy " of Dante, translation, 1867- 
70; "New England Tragedies," 1868; "The 
Divine Tragedy," 1871; "Three Books of 
Song," 1872; "Aftermath," 1873; "The 
Hanging of the Crane," 1874 ; "Morituri Salu- 
tamus," "The Masque of Pandora," 1875; 
"Keramos, and Other Poems," 1878; "Ul- 
tima Thule," 1880; "Hermes Trismegistus, " 
1882; "In the Harbor," 1882. He edited the 
anthology, "Poets and Poetry of Europe," 
containing some of liis own translations, 1843 ; 
and "Poems of Places," 31 vols., 1876-79. 
The Riverside edition of Longfellow's complete 
works, 11 vols., 1886, is the authoritative and 
definite one. For an expended review of the 
life and works of the poet who may be said, all 
in all, to have been America's untitled laureate 
throughout his most productive career, cp. 
"Poets of America," chap, vi, pp. 51, 177, 178. 

[l. c. b.] 
LORD, ■William 'Wilberforee, clergyman, 
b. Madison Co., New York, 1819. Rector of 
an Episcopal church at Vieksburg, Miss., and 
more recently of a church at Cooperstown, New 
York. Served as chaplain in the Confederate 
army. Author of " Poems," 1845 ; " Christ in 
Hades," 1851 ; and "Andre, a Tragedy," 1856. 
Cp. "Poets of America," p. 123. 

LORING, Frederick "Wadsworth, b. Bos- 
ton, Mass., 1848; d. near Wiekenburg, Ar., 
1871. Graduated at Harvard in 1870, and went 
in 1871, as correspondent of " Appleton's Jour- 
nal," on a government expedition to Arizona, 
where he was killed by Apache Indians. Au- 
thor of "Two College Friends," a novel, and 
of " The Boston Dip, and Other Verses." His 
best-known poem, " In the Old Churchyard at 
Fredericksburg," was based on a newspaper 
report that one of Shakespeare's pall-bearers, 
Helder by name, was buried in St. George's 
churchyard, Fredericksburg, Va. This report, 
originated during the Civil War, was investi- 
gated by Moncure D, Conway, who after sev- 
eral visits to Stafford Co., Va., discovered the 
tombstone of one Edmond Helder, a physician 
in another part of the county. Helder died in 



1618, aged 76, and it is thought that some one 
may have suggested that he could have been in 
point of time one of Shakespeare's bearers, and 
thus started the legend. The stone itself bore 
no such record. 

LOVEMAN, Robert, b. Cleveland, 0., 
1864. Received an academic education. Is a 
resident of Dalton, Ga. Author of "Poems," 
1897 ; " A Book of Verses," 1900. 

LO'WELL, James Russell, b. Cambridge, 
Mass., 22 Feb., 1819 ;'d. Cambridge, Aug. 12, 
1891. Of cultured parents, he received the 
early training that such a nature needs. He 
entered Harvard in 1834, where he devoted 
himself to reading if not to study. He wrote 
the class poem ; and after graduating from the 
law school, published a volume of poems, "A 
Yiear's Life," 1841. In 1844 his second book, 
entitled "Poems," appeared, containing the 
"Legend of Brittany," "Rhcecus," etc. An- 
other volume, " Poems," was published in 1848, 
and " Poetical Works " in 1850. The " Biglow 
Papers" began to appear in 1846, and made an 
immediate hit. The second series came out in 
1862-66. They won for him a fame that his 
most exqiiisite poems of nature had failed to 
bring. Even apart from his poetical works, 
Lowell's pen was never idle. His "Conversa- 
tions on Some of the Old Poets," 1844, is a 
proof of his critical ability, though an early 
specimen. In 1855 he became a professor of 
modern languages and belles lettres at Harvard, 
and his influence in that capacity was wide- 
spread. He became editor of the "Atlantic 
Monthly " in 1857, a position he held four years, 
contributing constantly to its pages. From 
1864 to 1869 he was an editor of the "North 
American Review," to which he contributed 
some literary essays of note. His prose work 
appeared in collected form in "Fireside Trav- 
els," 1864; "Among My Books," 1870 ; "My 
Study Windows," 1871 ; " Among My Books," 
second series, 1876. His prose style is individ- 
ual and distinctive ; his discrimination sure, 
and while he sometimes fails in construction, 
his trouble lies in an embarrassment of rich 
material. " Under the Willows, and Other 
Poems," appeared in 1868; "The Cathedral" 
in 1870 ; " Three Memorial Poems " in 1875-76. 
These last were delivered at Concord, 19 April, 
1875, at Cambridge, 3 July, 1875, and Boston, 
4 July, 1876. In 1877 he was appointed to 
the Spanish Mission by President Hayes, and 
in 1880 was transferred to London, where he re- 
mained until 1885. In 1887 he putjlished " De- 
mocracy, and Other Addresses," which had 
been deUvered in England. " Heartsease and 
Rue," poems, appeared in 1888 ; and " Political 
Essays " in the same year. The degree of 
D. C. L. was conferred 6n him in 1873, by 
Oxford ; and LL. D. by Cambridge in 1874. 
For an extended review of the genius and writ- 
ings of this representative poet, scholar, and 
man of letters, cp. " Poets of America," chap, 
ix. " [b. d. l.] 

LOWELL, Maria (White), b. Watertown, 



8o8 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



Mass., 1821 ; d. Cambridge, Mass., 1853. She 
was the first wife of James Russell Lowell, to 
whom she was married in 1844. Her poems 
were published in a privately printed edition in 
1853. Mrs. Lowell was beloved for her intel- 
lect and womanly charm. 

IiO"WELIj, Robert Traill Spence, brother 
of James Russell Lowell, b. Boston, Mass., 
1816 ; d. Schenectady, N. Y., 1891. He studied 
medicine, but became an Episcopal clergyman 
in Bermuda, 1842. He passed three years in 
Newfoundland, was head master of a school in 
Massachusetts, and professor of Latin in Union 
College, Schenectady. Author of " The New 
Priest in Conception Bay," novel, 1858 ; " Fresh 
Hearts that Failed Three Thousand Years Ago, 
and Other Poems," 1860; "A Story or Two 
from a Dutch Town," 1878. Among his poems 
is the stirring " Defence of Lucknow." 

LUDERS, Charles Henry, b. Philadelphia, 
Penn., 1858 ; d. there, 1891. A contributor of 
verse and prose to the magazines, and joint au- 
thor with S. D. Smith, Jr., of " Hallo, my 
Fancy ! " poems, 1887. A posthiimous collec- 
tion of his lyrics and idyls, " The Dead Nymph, 
and Other Poems," was published in 1892. He 
was a poet of unusual promise, whose naemory 
is cherished tenderly by his surviving associates. 

LUNT, George, b. Newburyport, Mass., 
1803 ; d. Boston, Mass., 1885. He was gradu- 
ated at Harvard, practised law, and with 
George S. Hillard edited the Boston " Courier " 
during the Civil War. He published " Poems," 
1839; "The Age of Gold," 1843; "The Dove 
and the Eagle," 1851 ; "Lyric Poems," 1854; 
"Radicalism in Religion, Philosophy, and So- 
cial Life," 1858 ; "Origin of the Late War," 
1866; "Old New England Traits," 1873; 
" Miscellanies, Poems, etc.," 1884. 

LYTLE, "William Haines, b. Cincinnati, 
0., 1826; fell at the battle of Chickamauga, 
Tenn., 1863. He was an officer in the Mexican 
and Civil wars, and by gallant conduct gained 
the rank of brigadier-general of volunteers. 
An edition of his poems, with memoir by W. 
H. Venable, appeared in 1894. 

MACE, Frances Parker (Laugliton), b. 
Orono, Me., 1836; d. Los Gatos, Cal., 1899. 
She was married, in 1855, to B. H. Mace, a 
prominent lawyer of Bangor, Me. Author osE 
"Legends, Lyrics, and Sonnets," 1884; and 
" Under Pine and Palm," 1888. 

MALONE, Walter, lawyer, b. De Soto Co., 
Miss., 1866. Educated at the University of 
Mississippi, and now a resident of New York 
City. He has published numerous volumes of 
verse, including " Songs of Dusk and Dawn," 
1894; " Songs of December and June," 1896; 
" The Coming of the King," 1897. 

MARKHAM, Edwin, educator and re- 
former, b. Oregon City, Ore., 23 April, 1852. A 
descendant of William Markham, first cousin 
of William Penn. His parents were early pio- 
neers from Michigan. His father dying, the 



family settled in central California. Mr. Mark- 
ham took the classical course at Christian Col- 
lege, Santa Rosa, Cal., and studied for the law, 
but did not practise. He was for many years 
superintendent and principal of various schools 
in California, and contributed to the advance 
of education in that State. In 1899 he resigned 
the head mastership of the Tompkins Observa- 
tion School at Oakland, and took up his resi- 
dence in Brooklyn, N. Y., not long after the 
remarkable success of his poem, "The Man 
with the Hoe," — suggested by J. F. Millet's 
painting with the same title. His poems have 
been collected as " The Man with the Hoe, 
and Other Poems," and "Lincoln, and Other 
Poems," 1900. For some years he has been at 
work upon a lyrical epic of the destiny of man 
here and hereafter. 

MARTIN, Edward Sanford, b. " Willow- 
brook," Owasco Lake, N. Y., 1856. A gradu- 
ate of Harvard University. He edited the 
N. Y. " Life " at its start in 1883. The selec- 
tions in this Anthology are taken from his vol- 
ume of verse, " A Little Brother of the Rich," 

1888. Mr. Martin contributes to " Harper's 
Weekly " a special department entitled "This 
Busy World." 

MASON, Agnes Louisa (Carter), b. New 
York, N. Y., 18—. Now a resident of Mont- 
clair, N. J. Daughter of Walter Carter, the 
publisher. She was married to Frank G. 
Mason in 1896. Mrs. Mason began to write 
when a young girl, and has published a volume 
of verse, " The White Nun." 

MASON, Caroline Atherton (Briggs), b. 
Marblehead, Mass., 1823 ; d. 1890. Popularly 
known as the author of " Do They Miss Me at 
Home " and " The King's Quest." Published 
"Uttei-ance, a Collection of Home Poems," 
1852 ; " Lost Ring and Other Poems," 1891. 

MASON, Mary Augusta, b. Windsor, N. Y., 
18 — . Educated at Windsor and Binghamton 
academies. Adopted daughter of Mr. and 
Mrs. Charles M. Dickinson, of Binghamton, 
N. Y. A contributor of verse and prose to the 
magazines, and author of " With the Seasons," 
poems, 1897. — Cp. C. M. Dickinson. 

MATHEWS Albert, " Paul Siegvolk," b. 
New York, N. Y., 1820. A cousin of the late 
dramatic poet, Cornelius Mathews. Graduated 
at Yale in 1842. He practises law in New 
York City, where he is also prominent in liter- 
ary circles, and has published " Walter Ash- 
wood ; a Love Story," 1860; "A Bundle of 
Papers," 1879; "Ruminations, and Other 
Essays," 1893. 

MATHEWS, Cornelius, lawyer, b. Port- 
chester, N. Y., 1817; d. New York, N. Y., 

1889. He graduated at the University of New 
York, and followed his profession in that city. 
" Behemoth : a Legend of the Mound-Build- 
ers." 18.39, "Puffer Hopkins," 1841, "Poems 
on Man," 1843, and several dramas which were 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



809 



produced, "were among his more important 
literary efforts. 

MATTHEWS, (James) Brander, b. New 
Orleans, La., 21 Feb., 1852. Graduated from 
Columbia University, 1871, and from its law 
school, 1873, receiving also its degree of A. M., 
1874. He was admitted to the N. Y. bar, but 
has devoted himself to letters and the drama, 
and is an authority on French dramatic litera- 
ture. In 1892 he became a member of the 
Faculty at Columbia, and is one of its profes- 
sors in literature. A founder of the Authors 
Club, and of the Dunlap Society, and prominent 
in the organization of the American Copyright 
League. Has for some years been active with 
his pen in the defence and maintenance of the 
national qiiality in American literature. Prof. 
Matthews is the author of many works of criti- 
cism, fiction, and of plays, but has written little 
in verse-form. His novels have to do with real 
life. His comedy " Peter Stuyvesant," written 
in collaboration with Bronson Howard, was 
produced in New York, 1899. He is an accom- 
plished bibliophile, and on the alert with respect 
to the rights and traditions of the literary pro- 
fession. 

McCABE, 'William Gordon, b. near Rich- 
mond, Va., 4 Aug., 1841 ; graduated at the 
University of Virginia. He was a captain of 
artillery in the Confederate army, and in 1888 
became head master of the celebrated Univer- 
sity School at Petersburg, Va., now removed 
to Richmond. Author of " The Defence of 
Petersburg, Campaign of 1864-65," 1876; a 
Latin grammar, and several lyrics very popular 
in the Civil War. Mr. McCabe has enjoyed the 
intimate friendship of Tennyson, and has been 
a welcome member of the literary groups of 
England and America, among whom he is dis- 
tinguished as a scholar, wit, and raconteur. 

McGAFFEY, Ernest, lawyer, b. London, 
0., 1861. Now a resident of Chicago, 111., 
where he practises his profession. Besides 
being identified as an author, Mr. McGaffey has 
standing as a sportsman, and celebrant of the 
gun and rod. "Poems of Gun and Rod," 
1892 ; " Poems," 1895, 

McLELLAM", Isaac, b. Portland, Me., 
1806 ; d. Greenport, L. I., 1899. A lawyer and 
sportsman, who published " The Fall of the 
Indian," 1830 ; " The Year and Other Poems," 
1832; "Poems of the Rod and Gun," 1883. 
"New England's Dead " has long been a school- 
reader classic. 

McMASTER, Guy Humphreys, jurist, b. 
Clyde, N. Y., 1829; d. Bath, N. Y., 1887. A 
graduate of Hamilton College. In 1864 he was 
elected judge of Steuben Co., N. Y., and in 1884 
surrogate of the same county. The unique, 
masterly, sonorous "Carmen Bellicosum" 
(" The Old Continentals ") appeared in the 
" Knickerbocker Magazine," 1849. He wrote 
a few other poems, "A History of Steuben 
County," and a series of letters from abroad to 
the Steuben " Courier." 



MELLElSr, Grenville, lawyer, b. Biddeford, 
Me., 1799 ; d. New York, N. Y., 1841. Fol- 
lowed his profession at Portland and North 
Yarmouth, Me. The last part of his life was 
passed in New York. Wrote " The Martyr's 
Triumph, Buried Valley, and Other Poems," 
1833, and several prose volumes. 

MELVILLE, Herman, romancer, b. New 
York, N. Y., 1 Aug., 1819; d. there, 28 Sept., 
1891. He was descended from Major Thomas 
Melville, one of the participants in the Boston 
"tea-party," and the original of Dr. Holmes's 
" Last Leaf." Mr. Melville early embraced a 
seafaring life, and gained, as a sailor before 
the mast, the experiences which are more or 
less realistically portrayed in his romances of 
adventure. The first and most successful, 
"Typee," 1846, was followed by " Omoo," 
1847; "White Jacket," 1850; and "Moby 
Dick," 1851. On returning from his voyages, 
he resided for several years at Pittsfield, Mass., 
engaged in literary pursuits. In 1860 he re- 
moved to New York. His poetical works in- 
clude " Battle-Pieces, and Aspects of the 
War," 1866, and two privately printed book- 
lets containing his later poems. Melville now 
holds his station, both in Great Britain and 
America, as one of the most original romancers 
that this country has produced. His leading 
books, " Typee," " Omoo," " Moby Dick," and 
"White Jacket," were reprinted in a foiir 
volume edition, with an Introduction by Arthur 
Stedman, in 1892. 

MERCER, Margaret, b. Annapolis, Md., 
1791 ; d. 1846. She was a daughter of John 
Mercer, governor of Maryland. A writer of 
religious verse . Was engaged in teaching school 
for the greater part of her life. 

MEREDITH, William Tuckey, b. Phila- 
delphia, Penn., 1839. An officer of the U. S. 
army, who served under Farragut in the battle 
of Mobile Bay, and became his secretary. 
Afterwards a banker in New York City. He 
published a novel, " Not of Her Father's Race," 
1891. 

MERINGTOK", Marguerite, b. Stoke 
Newington, London, England, 18 — . A well- 
known and successful playwright of New York 
City, and writer of occasional short stories. 

MERRILL, Charles Edmund, Jr., Yale 
University, Class of 1898. 

MESSINGER, Robert Hinckley, b. Bos- 
ton, Mass., 1811; d. Stamford, Conn., 1874. 
He lived in New York, and contributed short 
pieces to " The American " of that city. 

MIFFLIKT, Lloyd, b. Columbia, Penn., 
1846. Son of J. Houston Mifflin, the portrait 
painter, and himself an artist. He was obliged 
to abandon painting in 1877, on account of fail- 
ing health, and afterwards devoted himself to 
literary work. Always a resident of Columbia. 
Besides general contributions to the periodicals 
he has published the following volumes of 
poems: " The Hills," 1895 ; " At the Gates of 



8io 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



Song," 1897; "The Slopes of Helicon, and 
Other Poems," 1898 ; " Echoes of Greek Idyls," 
1899 ; and " The Fields of Dawn," 1900. 

MILLER, Alice (Duer), sister of Caroline 
Duer (q. v.), b. near Fort Wadsworth, Staten 
Island, N. Y., 187-. In 1899 she was married 
to Henry Wise Miller, and her present residence 
is Costa" Rica, Central America. Mrs. Miller is 
the joint author with her sister of "Poems by 
Caroline and Alice Duer," 1896. 

MILLEK, Cincinnatus Hiner (Joaquin), 
b. Wabash District, Ind., 10 Nov., 1841 . When 
about thirteen he removed to Willamette Val- 
ley, Oregon. After a brief experience in a 
California g-old mine he returned, in 1860, to 
Oregon, studied law, was admitted to the bar, 
edited the Eugene " Democratic Register," and 
practised law in Canyon City. He wrote a de- 
fence of the Mexican brigand, Joaquin Muri- 
etta, and adopted his first name for a pseudo- 
nym. From 1866 to 1870 he was judge of 
Grant Co., Oregon. He visited England and 
other parts of Europe in 1870, and in the fol- 
lowing year published his first volume of verse, 
" Songs of the Sierras." In 1887, after some 
years of journalistic work in Washington, 
D. C, he removed to Oakland, Cal. In 1898 
he visited the Klondike. His pictixresque home 
is on the heights behind Fruitvale, overlooking 
San Francisco Bay. Among his works are 
"Songs of the Sunlands," 1873; "The Ship 
of the Desert," "The Ships in the Desert," 
"Songs of the Desert," 1875 ; "The Baroness 
of New York," novel, 1877; "Songs of Italy," 
1878_; "Shadows of Shasta," 1881; "The 
Danites in the Sierras," 1881, a novel, drama- 
tized and successfully produced as " The 
Danites;" " Memorie and Rime," 1884; 
"Songs of the Mexican Seas," 1887; "Songs 
of the Soul," 1896. A collective edition of his 
poems was issued in California, in 1897. 

" MILLER, Joaquin." — See C. H. Miller. 



MILLER, Katharine 
Italy, IS — . Daughter of 
Henry A. Wise, U. S. 
Gringos," " Capt. Brand, 
Commodore J. W. Miller 
Her poem, "Stevenson's 
on an aetiial occurrence. 



(Wise), b. Spezia, 
the late Commodore 
N. (author of ' ' Los 
" etc.), and wife of 
of the naval reserve. 
Birthday," is based 



MITCHELL, Langdon Elwyn, b. Phila- 
delphia, Penn., 1862. Son of Dr. S. Weir 
Mitchell. Received his education at Berlin 
and Heidelberg, Germany, and studied for 
several years at the Harvard law school. He 
passed the bar examination in New York City. 
His first book of verse, "Sylvian, a Tragedy, 
and Poems," 1885, was issued over the pen 
name of " John Philip Varley." His " Poems " 
appeared in 1894, _ Mr. Mitchell has made a 
study of _ dramatic construction. " Becky 
Sharp," his siiccessful dramatization of Thack- 
eray's " Vanity Fair," was produced at the 
Fifth Avenue Theatre, New York, by Mrs. 
Fiske, in 1899, 



MITCHELL, Silas Weir, b. Philadelphia, 
Penn,, 15 Feb., 1829. He was graduated at 
Jefferson Medical College in 1850, Dr, Mitchell 
has published numerous technical and popular 
medical works of importance. His volume of 
short stories, " Hepzibah Guinness," 1880, was 
followed by " In War Time," 1884 ; " Roland 
Blake," 1886; "Characteristics," 1893; 
"Hugh Wynne, Free Quaker," 1897; "The 
Adventures of Frangois," 1898; "The Auto- 
biography of a Quack," 1899. His first volume 
of verse, " The Hill of Stones, and Other 
Poems," appeared in 1882, his collected poems 
to date in 1896, and " The Wager and Other 
Poems," 1900. It is interesting to note that 
Dr. Mitchell, through seniority of years, leads 
off the authors of the ' ' Second Lyrical Period ' ' 
(p, 311), although almost the first lyric by which 
he won the critical public was the delightful 
bit of "patrician verse," "A Decanter of 
Madeira," composed in 1880, His son, Lang- 
don Elwyn, by a pleasant coincidence, and by 
transmission of the poetic gift, is the first- 
named author in the closing division of this 
Anthology. 

MITCHELL, Walter, clergyman, b. Nan- 
tucket, Mass., 1826. He was gra,duated at 
Harvard, entered the Episcopal ministry, and 
presided over several churches in the East. 
Was editorially connected with " The Church- 
man," contributed to other periodicals, in verse 
and prose, and is the author of the well-known 
polemic novel, " Bryan Maurice," and of a vol- 
ume of poems, 

MONROE, Harriet, b. Chicago, 111., 186- 
Graduated at the Visitation Academy, George- 
town, D. C. She has always resided at Chicago, 
where she wrote the text of the cantata for the 
opening of the Chicago Auditorium, 1889. Miss 
Munroe having been appointed to write the 
" Columbian Ode " on the occasion of the dedi- 
catory ceremonies of the World's Columbian 
Exposition, her ode was read before a vast gath- 
ering on the 400th anniversary, — 21 Oct., 1892 
— of the discovery of America. It was pub- 
lished the following year. Author of "Vale- 
ria, and Other Poems," 1891 ; "John Wellborn 
Root, a Memoir," 1896 ; and of many reviews 
and sketches. 

MONTGOMERY, George Edgar, b. New 
York, N. Y., 1855 ; d_. there, 1898. Studied at 
the College of the City of New York, and at 
Paris. Always a resident of New York. Was 
for some time dramatic critic of the N. Y. 
" Times," and correspondent for various papers. 
His writings in prose and verse have not been 
collected. 

MOODY, William Vaughn, educator, b. 
Spencer, Ind., 1869. Graduated at Harvard, 
1893, and has been instructor in English litera- 
ture at the University of Chicago and assistant 
in the English department of Harvard. Edi- 
tor of the " Cambridge " Milton, 1899, and au- 
thor of uncollected poems and of " The Masque 
of Judgment," drama, 1900. 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



8ii 



MOORE, Charles Leonard, lawyer, b. 
Philadelphia, Penn., 1854. Was U. S. consu- 
lar agent at iSan Antonio, Brazil, 1878-79. His 
poetical works are "Atlas," 1881; "Poems 
Antique and Modern," 1883; "Book of Day 
Dreams," 1888; "Banquet of Palacios," 1889; 
"Odes," 1896. 

MOORE, Clement Clarke, educator, b. 
New York, N. Y., 1779 ; d. Newport, R. I., 186.3. 
Professor of Oriental languages at the New 
York General Theological Seminary from 1821 
until his death. His famous poem, " A Visit 
from St. Nicholas," written for his children,' 
Christmas, 1822, was sent without his know- 
ledge to the Troy "Sentinel," where it ap- 
peared anonymously Dec. 23, 1823. A collec- 
tion of his verse was published in 1844. 

MORGRIDGE, Harriet Sampson, b. Ches- 
terviUe, Me, 18 — . Miss Morgridge's occasional 
verse is often written in a quaint and original 
vein. 

MORRIS, George Pope, journalist, b. 
Philadelphia, Penn., 1802 ; d. New York, N. Y., 
1864. Removed to New York at an early age, 
where he became a prominent figure in literary 
circles. In 1823 he established with Samuel 
Woodworth the " Mirror," which he edited 
until 1844. Two years later he founded the 
" Home Journal," with N. P. Willis as coed- 
itor, and was connected with this periodical for 
the remainder of his life. His drama of the 
Revolution, " Briar Cliff," was produced with 
success. His best-known song is "Woodman, 
Spare that Tree ! " Others are almost as 
popular. A volume of his prose sketches was 
published in 1836, and a collective edition of 
^'Poems"inl860. 

MORRIS, Gouverneur, Yale University, 
Class of 1898. 

MORRIS, Harrison Smith, b. Philadel- 
phia, Penn., 1856. Always a resident of that 
city, where he received his education in the 
grammar schools, supplementing it by reading 
and study. He was engaged in business and 
literary work until 1893, when his activity and 
learning in art matters brought him the ap- 
pointment of managing director of the Penn. 
Aead. of the Fine Arts. In 1899 he became 
editor of the new " Lippincott's Magazine." 
Author of "Tales from Ten Poets," 1893; 
"Tales from Shakespeare," continuing the 
work of Charles and Mary Lamb, 1893 ; "Ma- 
donna, and Other Poems," 1894. Editor of 
"In the Yule Log Glow," 1892. 

MORSE, James Herbert, educator and 
critic, b. Hubbardstown, Mass., 1841. Gradu- 
ated at Harvard. He established the Morse 
and Rogers Collegiate School in New York 
City, and is a frequent contributor, in verse 
and prose, to periodical literature. Author of 
"Summer-Haven Songs," 1886. Mr. Morse is 
a leading member of the Authors Club, and 
of the Council of the American Copjnright 
League. 



MOULTOM", EUen Louise (Chandler), b. 
Pomfret, Conn., 1835. She was educated at a 
seminary in Troy, N. Y., wrote for publication 
in girlhood, and was married, at twenty, to the 
Boston publisher, William Moulton. She be- 
came the Boston literary correspondent of the 
N. Y. " Tribune," in which for years her letters 
and reports were conspicuous. Mrs. Moulton 
has visited Europe frequently, and was the 
literary executor of the English poet Philip 
Bourke Marston, whose poems she edited, with 
a feeling preface. Her works include " This, 
That, and the Other," stories, essays, and 
poems, 1854; "Juno Clifford," novel, 1855; 
" Poems," 1877 ; " Swallow-Flights, and Other 
Poems," 1878; "Random Rambles," 1881; 
"Some Women's Hearts," 1888; "In the 
Garden of Dreams, Lyrics and Sonnets," 1890: 
" At the Wind's Will," 1900. This lastvolume 
contains the following tribute to Miss Howells, 
which, because of the late publication of the 
book, could not be inserted on its rightful page 
in this Anthology. 

THE CLOSED GATE 

But life is short ; so gently close the gate. 

WisriFKED Howells. 

Thus wrote she when the heart in her was high, 
And her brief tale of youth seemed just begun. 
Like some white flower that shivers in the sun 
She heard from far the low winds prophesy — 
Blowing across the grave where she must lie — 
Had strange prevision of the victory won 
In the swift race that Life with Death should run, 
And, hand in hand with Life, saw Death draw nigh. 
Beyond this world the hostile surges foam : 
Our eyes are dim with tears and cannot see 
In what fair paths her feet our coming wait. 
What stars rise for her in her far new home. 
We but conjecture all she yet may be. 
While on the Joy she was, we close the gate. 

MUHLENBERG, "William Augustus, 
Episcopal clergyman, b. Philadelphia, Penn., 
1796 ; d. New York, N. Y., 1877. Graduated at 
the University of Pennsylvania. He was rector 
of the Church of the Holy Communion in New 
York from 1843 until his death. " I would not 
live alway " is the best known of his hymns. 

MUNGER, Robert Louis, Yale University, 
Class of 1897. 

MUTTKITTRICK, Richard Kendall, b. 

Manchester, England, 1853. Came to America 
in childhood, and received education at private 
academies. A resident of Summit, N. J. On 
editorial_ staff of "Puck," 1881-89. Some of 
his contributions in prose and verse to the peri- 
odicals have been published as "Farming," 
1891 ; " The Moon Prince, and Other Nabobs," 
1893 ; " The Acrobatic Muse," 1897 ; etc. 

NASON, Emma (Huntington), b. Hal- 
lowell. Me., 1845. She lives in Aiigusta, Me., 
and has written "White Sails," verse, 1888; 
" The Tower, with Legends and Lyrics," 1895. 

NEAL, John, b. Portland, Me., 1793 ; d. 
Portland, Me., 1876. After admission to the 
bar at Baltimore, Md., 1819, he spent several 



8l2 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



years in legal practice and in mercantile pur- 
suits' before he began his literary career. 
" Eandolph " and " Seventy-Six," the most 
notable of his fiction, followed the production 
of several novels, some poems, and some histor- 
cial work. In 1824 he went abroad, where, 
under the guise of an Englishman, he appeared 
in " Blackwood's Magazine " and other Brit- 
ish quarterlies, to correct prevailing opinion 
of social and political conditions in the United 
States. He is said to have been one of the first 
Americans to write on American topics in Eng- 
land, an originator of the woman's sufErage 
movement, among the first to establish a gym- 
nasium in this country, and one of the earliest 
to encourage Poe's talents. " Wandering Recol- 
lections of a Somewhat Busy Life," 1869, was 
his last volume. 

NEGRO SPIRITUALS. — The editor has 
thought it well to represent the most character- 
istic folk-songs which this country has pro- 
duced by a few of those " universal " among 
the colored population of the Southern States. 
They have the tunes and words, the essential 
melody and import that constitute original 
"themes." The text is chiefly that adopted 
for Stedman and Hutchinson's "Library of 
American Literature " from the collection 
edited by W. F. Allen, E. P. Ware, and Lucy 
McKim Garrison, 1867, and from the Hampton 
"Cabin and Plantation Songs "_ arranged _ by 
T. P. Fenner, 1875. Colonel Higginson's article 
entitled "Negro Spirituals" can be found in 
the "Atlantic Monthly," 1867. 

NESMITH, James Ernest, artist, b. Mass., 
1856 ; d. 1898. Mr. Nesmith resided in Lowell, 
Mass., and published "Monadnoc, and Other 
Sketches in Verse," 1888 ; " Philoctetes, and 
Other Poems and Sonnets," 1894. His poetry 
is refined and scholarly, with a thoughtful 
undertone, the second collection containing some 
vigorous " Later Sonnets." 

NEWELL, Robert Henry, " Orpheus C. 
Kerr," b. New York, N. Y., 1836. He was on 
the stafP of the N. Y. " Mercury," 1858-62, and 
of the N. Y. "World," 1869-74. Edited 
" Hearth and Home," 1874-76, and published 
"The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers," a famous 
satirical series during and after the Civil War, 
1862-68; "The Palace Beautiful, and Other 
Poems," 1865; "The Cloven Foot," story, 
1870; several other romances, and "Studies 
in Stanzas," 1882. Is now a resident of Brook- 
lyn, N. Y. 

NORTON, Andrews, Unitarian clergyman, 
b. Hingham, Mass., 1786 ; d. Newport, R. I., 
1853. He was graduated at Harvard, and was 
professor of sacred literature in that institution 
from 1819 to 1830. Besides numerous theolo- 
gical works, he was the author of several cher- 
ished hymns and of other poems. 

O'BRIEN, Fitz-James, b. Limerick, Ire- 
land, 1828 ; d. Cumberland, Md., 1862. Was 
educated at Dublin University, came to Amer- 
ica in 1852, and lived in New York City till 



1861, when he enlisted in the United States 
army ; a year later he was fatally wounded. 
The facts that his literary career was chiefly in 
America, and that he gave his life for this 
country, eminently warrant his representation 
here. He was a frequent contributor to " Har- 
per's Magazine." His story "The Diamond 
Lens" appeared in an early number of "The 
Atlantic Monthly." His most successful play 
was " A Gentleman from Ireland," produced 
at Wallack's Theatre. " The Poems and Sto- 
ries of Fitz-James O'Brien ; Edited, with a 
Sketch of the Author, by William Winter," 
'appeared in 1881 ; and a collection of his stories 
in 1887. 

" OCCIDENTE, Maria del." — See Maria 
Gowen Brooks. 

O'CONNOR, Joseph, journalist, b. Tribes 
Hill, N. Y., 1841. Graduated at the University 
of Rochester. Entered journalism in 1870, and 
became editor of the Rochester " Post-Express " 
in 1886. His " Poems " were x'ublished in 1895. 

O'CONNOR, Michael, brother of the pre- 
ceding,' b. Eastchester, N. Y., 1837; d. Poto- 
mac Station, Va., 28 Dec, 1862. Sergeant of 
volunteers in the Civil War. 

O'HARA, Theodore, soldier, b. Danville, 
Ky., 1820 ; d. near Guerryton,_Ala., 1867. He 
served in the U. S. army during the Mexican 
War, and in the Confederate army during the 
Civil War, and at one time practised law 
in Washington. His oft-quoted poem, " The 
Bivouac of the Dead," commemorates the 
Kentuckians who fell at Buena Vista. 

O'REILLY, John Boyle, b. Dowth Castle, 
Co. Meath. Ireland, 28 June, 1844 ; d. Hull, 
Mass., 10 Aug., 1890. Son of the master of 
Nettle ville Institute at Dowth Castle. He did 
^ome journalistic work in Drogheda, near his 
birthplace, but was sent to England as an agent 
of the Fenian society. He was arrested and 
condemned to death, but his sentence was com- 
muted, and he was sent to Australia. After a 
year of penal servitude he escaped in a boat, 
was rescued by an American whaler, and landed 
at Philadelphia, Penn., 1869. He became 
editor and joint owner of the Boston " Pilot," 
and published " Songs of the Southern Seas," 
1873; "Songs, Legends, and Ballads," 1878 ; 
" Moondyne," novel, 1879; "Statues in the 
Block," poems, 1881; "In Bohemia," 1886; 
"The Ethics of Boxing," 1888; "Stories and 
Sketches," 1888. At the time of his death he 
was preparing a work on Ireland. In 1896 a 
statue of Mr. O'Reilly by Daniel French was 
unveiled in Boston. Below the statue, which 
is fourteen feet tall, is a group of symbolic fig- 
ures. 

" O'REILLY, Miles." — See Charles Gra- 
ham Halpine. 

OSBORNE, (Samuel) Duffield, novelist, b. 
Brooklyn, N. Y., 1858. He graduated from 
Columbia College, taking the degrees of A. B. in 
1879, LL, B. in 1881, and A.M. in 1882. Has con- 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



813 



tributed extensively to magazines. His books, 
" The (SpeU of Ashtaroth,"_ 1888, and " The 
Robe of Nessus," 1890, are historical romances. 

OSGOOD, Frances Sargent (Locke), b. 
Boston, Mass., 1811 ; d. Hingham, Mass., 1850. 
When a child she contributed verses to Lydia 
Maria Child's "Juvenile Miscellany." In 1834 
the artist S. S. Osgood won her heart while 
painting her portrait. Soon after their mar- 
riage they went to London, and while there 
she published "A Wreath of Wild Flowers 
from New England," poems. Her play," The 
Happy Release, or the Triumphs of Love," 
written at iSheridan Knowles's request, was 
accepted but never produced. During a resi- 
dence in New York she formed a friendship 
with Poe, and her influence over him lasted till 
his death. Her " Poetry of Flowers " appeared 
in 1841, her "Poems," 1846, and "The Floral 
Offering," 1847. 

OSGOOD, Kate Putnam, b. Fryeburg, Me., 
1841. Sister of the late publisher, James R. 
Osgood. She has spent a number of years in 
Europe, and lives in Boston, Mass. Her poem 
" Driving Home the Cows " appeared in " Har- 
per's Monthly," 1865. 

PAGE, Thomas Nelson, b. Oakland, Va., 
2.3 Apr., 1853. He was educated at the Wash- 
ington and Lee University, and graduated in 
law at the University of Virginia. Practised 
law at Richmond from 1875 to 1893, when he 
removed to Washington, D. C. Some of this 
leading Southern novelist's books of fiction 
are "In Ole Virginia," 1887; "Two Little 
Confederates," 1888 ; " On New-found River," 
1891 ; "Red Rock," 1899. He has also pub- 
lished "The Old South: Essays, Social and 
Political," 1892; and, with A. C. Gordon, 
"Befo' de War," verse, 1888. 

PAINE, Albert Bigelow, b. New Bedford, 
Mass., 1861. Early removed to Illinois, where 
he was educated in the public schools. En- 
gaged in bvisiness in the West until the success 
of his contributions of fiction and verse led 
him to make his home in New York. Joined 
the staff of " St. Nicholas," 1899. Author of 
" Rhymes by Two Friends," with W. A. White, 
1893; "The Arkansaw Bear," fiction, 1898; 
" The Bread Line," fiction, 1900 ; etc. 

PALFREY, Sarah Hammond, " E. Fox- 
ton," b. Massachusetts, 1823. Daughter of 
John Gorham Palfrey, the historian. Her 
verse includes " Pr^mices," 1855 ; "Sir Pavon 
and St. Pavon," 1867 ; " The Chapel and Other 
Poems," 1880 ; " The Blossoming Red and 
Other Poems," 1886. In fiction she has pub- 
lished "Hermann, or Young Knighthood," 
1866; " Katherine Morse, or First Love and 
Best," 1867. 

PALMEB, John Williamson, physician, 
b. Baltimore, Md., 1825. Early in life he prac- 
tised his profession in San Francisco. Resided 
in New York after 1870, and engaged in gen- 
eral literary work ; was editorially connected 



with the "Century Dictionary." His ballad 
"Stonewall Jackson's Way" was written at 
Oakland, Md., on the 17th of September, 1862, 
while the battle of Antietam was in progress. 
Collected poems are published in " For Charlie's 
Sake, and Other Ballads and Lyrics," 1901. 

PALMER, Ray, Cong, clergyman, b. Little 
Compton, R. I., 1808; d. Newark, N. J., 1887. 
Pastor at Bath, Me., and Albany, N. Y. His 
hymn " My Faith Looks up to Thee " has been 
translated into twenty languages. He published 
several volumes of hymns. His complete poet- 
ical works appeared in 1876. 

PARADISE, Caroline Wilder (Fellowes), 
b. East Orange, N. J., 186-. She was married, 
in 1890, to the Rev. Frank Ilsey Paradise, of 
Boston, Mass. Her poetry is uncollected. 

PARKER, Theodore, the eminent Unita- 
rian clergyman and abolitionist, b. Lexington, 
Mass., 1810; d. Florence, Italy, 1860. The 
poem " Jesus," given in the Anthology, is taken 
from his lecture, "Mistakes about Jesus." 
His complete works, edited by Frances Power 
Cobbe, appeared in London, 1863-65, and a 
Boston edition in 1870. Among his biogra- 
phers are Weiss and Frothingham. 

PARSONS, Thomas William, b. Boston, 
Mass., 18 Aug., 1819; d. _Scituate,_ Mass., 8 
Sept., 1892. He received his education at the 
Boston Latin School and at home. Visited Eu- 
rope in 1836, and pursued in Italy the studies 
which culminated in his metrical translation 
of the first ten cantos of Dante's "Inferno," 
1843, reissued in extended form in 1867 and 
1893. He studied dentistry, and practised in 
Boston and London, residing in the former city 
after 1872. Dr. Parsons's noble lyric " Lines 
on a Bust of Dante ' ' first appeared in the Bos- 
ton " Advertiser and Patriot, " 1841. His books 
of original poetry are "The Magnolia, and 
Other Poems," 1867 ; " The Old House at Sud- 
bury," 1870; "The Shadow of the Obelisk, 
and Other Poems," 1872 ; and " Poems," defin- 
itive edition, 1893. Cp. " Poets of America," 
p. 55. 

" PAUL, John." — See Charles Henry 
Webb. 

PAULDING, James Kirke, early novelist, 
b. Pleasant Valley, N. Y., 1779 ; d. Hyde Park, 
N. Y., 1860. Associated with Washington and 
William Irving in the publication of "Salma- 
gundi," 1807-08. Secretary of the navy under 
President Van Buren, 1837-41. His works, 
chiefly fiction, include " The Diverting History 
of John Bull and Brother Jonathan," 1812 ; 
" The Backwoodsman," a poem, 1818 ; " K6- 
nigsmarke,"1823 ; "TheDutchman'sFireside," 
1831 ; " The Puritan and His Daughter," 1849 ; 
" Letters on Slavery," 1835 ; " Life of George 
Washington," 1854. 

PAYNE, John Howard, actor and dra- 
matist, b. New York, N. Y., 9 June, 1791 ; 
d. Tunis, Africa, 9 April, 1852. Entered Union 
College, which he left for his first appearance 



8i4 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



on the stage at New York in 1809. He had 
already gained attention as the editor of a juTe- 
nile paper, the "Thespian Mirror." Was suc- 
cessful as an actor in America and England. 
His best -known plays are "Brutus" and 
"Charles II." The song "Home, Sweet 
Home " is contained in Payne's opera " Clari, 
the Maid of Milan," produced at Covent Garden 
Theatre in 1823. He was U. S. consul at Tunis 
from 1841 until his death. In 1883 his remains 
were removed, under the supervision of John 
Worthington, U. S. consul at Malta, and at the 
expense of W. W. Corcoran, to Washington, 
D. C, and were interred in the Oak Hill Cem- 
etery. 

PAYNE, ■Williara Morton, educator and 
critic, b. Newbviryport, Mass., 1858. He as- 
sisted Dr. Poole in the Chicago Public Library, 
1874-76, and since 1876 has been a professor in 
the high schools of that city. Became associ- 
ate editor of "The Dial," 1892, and is its 
leading reviewer. Author of "Our New Edu- 
cation," 1884; "Little Leaders," 1895; and 
translator of Norwegian classics. Mr. Payne 
is an authority upon modern Scandinavian liter- 
ature, and prominent among American scholars 
and critics. 

PEAEODY, Josephine Preston, b. New 
York, N. Y., 187-. Now resident in Cambridge, 
Mass. Author of "The Wayfarers," 1898, a 
little volume containing some of the most ex- 
pressive and essentially poetic verse that has 
come from our rising group of lyrists. 

PEABODY, ■William OHver Bourne, D. D., 
b. Exeter, N. H., 1799; d. Springfield, Mass., 
1847. Graduated at Harvard. Pastor of the 
Unitarian Church at Springfield, 1820-47. 
Edited " The Springfield Collection of Hymns," 
1833 ; wrote the report on " Birds of the Com- 
monwealth," 1839. A prominent contributor 
to the " North American Review " and " Chris- 
tian Examiner." The selection from Dr. Pea- 
body relates to a passage in w£ich Thomas 
Hope's Anastasius laments the death of his 
child Alexander. His "Literary Remains" 
appeared in 1850. Dr. Peabody's twin brother, 
Oliver WiUiam Bourne Peabody, wrote an elo- 
quent lyric, " Hymn to the Stars," which may 
be found in " A Library of American Litera- 
ture," vol. V. 

PECK, Harry Thurston, L. H. D., edu- 
cator and critic, b. Stamford, Conn., 1856. He 
graduated at Columbia, and afterward became 
professor of Latin in that university. Since 
1895 he has been the American editor of " The 
Bookman," and is also literary editor of the 
New York " Commercial Advertiser." Author 
of "The Semitic Theory of Creation," 1886; 
"Latin Pronunciation," 1890 ; "The Personal 
Equation," essays, 1897 ; " What is Good Eng- 
lish, and Other Essays," 1899 ; " Greystone and 
Porphyry," verse, 1900. Editor of " The Inter- 
national Cyclopaedia, " 1892, and of classical 
text-books and reference works. 

PECK, Samuel Minturn, b. Tuscaloosa, 



Ala., 1854. Graduated at the University of 
Alabama, and afterwards studied medicine in 
New York. A resident of his native town, 
where he divides his time between literature 
and farming. His published volumes are 
"Caps and Bells," 1886; "Rings and Love- 
knots," 1892; "Rhymes and Roses," 1895; 
" Fair Women of To-day," 1898. 

PELIjE"W, George, b. Cowes, Isle of 
Wight, England, 1859 ; d. New York, N. Y., 
1892. He was a grandson of John Jay. Grad- 
uated at Harvard, 1880, and at the Harvard 
law school, 1883. Although admitted to the 
bar, he devoted himself to literary work. A 
trip to Ireland resulted in his book " In Cabin 
and Castle," 1888. conunended by John Morley. 
Also author of Women and the Common- 
wealth," 1888; "John Jay," in "American 
Statesmen " series, 1890 ; " Poems," edited by 
W. D. Howells, 1892. 

PERCIVAL, James Gates, geologist, b. 
Berlin, Conn., 15 Sept., 1795 ; d. Hazel Green, 
Wis., 2 May, 1856. He was graduated at Yale, 
and practised as a physician at Charleston and 
in the U. S. recruiting service. Began the study 
of geology at New Haven in 1827, and prepared 
state reports on the geological conditions of 
Connecticut and Wisconsin. His first volume 
of poems, "Prometheus," apjjeared in 1820. 
" Poetical Works," 1859, contains his miscellan- 
eous poems and tragedies. Cp. " Poets of 
America," p. 38. 

" PERCY, Florence." — See E. A. {Chase) 
(Akers) Allen. 

PERRY, LiUa Cabot, b. Mass., 185-. 
Wife of Thomas Sargeant Perry. Author of 
" English Literature in the Eighteenth Cen- 
tury," etc. A resident of Boston. She has 
published a volume of poems, "Impressions," 
1898. 

PERRY, Nora, b. Dudley, Mass., 183- ; 
d. there, 1896. Her early life was passed in 
Providence, R. I. She was Boston correspond- 
ent of the Chicago " Tribune," and later of 
the Providence "Journal." Among her writ- 
ings are : " After the Ball, and Other Poems," 
1875 ; " Her Lover's Friend, and Other Poems," 
1879: "A Book of Love Stories," 1881 ; "For 
a Woman," novel, 1885 ; " New Songs and 
Ballads," 1886; "Legends and Lyrics," 1890; 
and numerous stories for girls. 

PETERSON", Arthur, b. Philadelphia, 
Penn., 1851. Son of Henry Peterson. Enter- 
ing the navy as a paymaster, Mr. Peterson has 
served on many cruises since 1877. His poems 
have been published as follows : " Songs of 
New Sweden," 1887 ; " Penekyn's Pilgrimage," 
1894 ; and " Collected Poems," 1900. 

PETERSON, Frederick, physician, b. 
Faribault, Minn., 1859. A graduate of the 
University of Buffalo, and instructor in mental 
and nervous diseases at Columbia University. 
Author of " Poems and Swedish Translations," 
1883, and " In the Shade of Ygdrasil," 1893. 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



8iS 



PETERSON, Henry, publisher, b. Phila- 
delphia, Penn., 1818; d. 1891. For twenty 
years assistant editor of the Philadelphia 

Saturday Evening Post." He published 
"Poems," 1863 and 1883 ; " The Modern Job, 
and Other Poems," 1869 ; " Faire-Mount," 
poem, 1874; " Confessions of a Minister," 1874 ; 

Bessie's Lovers," 1877 ; " Csesar, a Dramatic 
Study," 1879. His drama "Helen, or 100 
Years Ago," was produced in 1876. The " Ode 
for Decoration Day," from which an extract is 
given on pp. 180, 181, was one of the earliest 
poems of its class and is memorable for the 
line, "Foes for a day and brothers for all 
time." 

PHELPS, Charles Henry, b. Stockton, 
Cal., 1853, but belongs to the distinguished 
Phelps family of Eastern Massachusetts. Edu- 
cated at the University of California and the 
Harvard law school. He practised law in San 
Francisco, edited "The CaHfornian " (after- 
wards ' ' Overland Monthly ' '), 1880-82 ; and pub- 
lished " Calif ornian Verses," 1882. Is still an 
occasional writer for the ' ' Atlantic Monthly ' ' 
and other magazines. Now a leading member 
of the New York bar, and an authority on 
copyright law. 

PIATT, John James, b. James Mill, now 
Milton, Ind., 1 March, 1835. He studied at 
Kenyon College, and became private secretary 
to G. D. Prentice, of the Louisville "Journal." 
During the Civil War he was in the Treasury 
Department, Washington, having gained the 
friendship of Mr. Chase. In 1871 he became 
librarian of the House of Representatives at 
Washington, and in 1882, U. S. consul at Cork, 
Ireland, where he remained till 1894. With 
W. D. Howells he wrote " Poems of Two 
Friends," 1860 (now "rare " and valuable as a 
" first book " of each author) ; and with Mrs. 
Piatt, " The Nests at Washington, and Other 
Poems," 1864, and "The Children Out of 
Doors," 1884. He has also published " Poems 
in Sunshine and Firelight," 1866; "Western 
Windows, and Other Poems," 1869 ; " Land- 
marks, and Other Poems," 1871 ; "Poems of 
House and Home," 1879; "Idyls and Lyrics 
of the Ohio Valley," 1884, 1888, 1893; "At 
the Holy Well," 1887 ; "A Book of Gold, and 
Other Sonnets," 1889; "Little New- World 
Idyls, and Other Poems," 1893; "Pencilled 
Fly-Leaves," and "A Return to Paradise" in 
prose. He has edited " The Union of American 
Poetry and Art." Mr. Piatt is a representative 
poet of the middle West. His wife was Sallie 
Bryan, of Kentucky, and the two, like the 
Stoddards, often receive the appellation, once 
bestowed upon the Brownings, of "the wedded 
poets." Cp. " Poets of America," p. 453. 

PIATT, Sarah Morgan (Bryan), b. Lex- 
ington, Ky., 1836. She studied at the Henry 
female college of New Castle, Ky., and pub- 
lished her first verses in the Louisville " Jour- 
nal." In 1861 she was married to John J. 
Piatt. Her works include "A Woman's 
Poems," 1871 ; " A Voyage to the Fortunate 



Isles," 1874; "That New World, and Other 
Poems," 1876 : " Poems in Company with Chil- 
dren," 1877 ; ' Dramatic Persons and Moods," 
1880; "An Irish Garland," 1884; "Child- 
World Ballads," 1887; "The Witch in the 
Glass, and Other Poems," 1889; "An En- 
chanted Castle," 1893. For volumes issued in 
collaboration with her husband, see Piatt, J. J. 
Mrs. Piatt's verse has met with high favor both 
here and in Great Britain. 

PIERPONT, John, Unitarian clergyman, 
b. Litchfield, Conn., 1785, thus antedating 
Bryant ; d. Medford, Conn., 1866. Graduated 
at Yale, 1804. Occupied himself successively 
with teaching, business, and the law. Entered 
the Unitarian ministry in 1819, and was for 
twenty-six years pastor of the HoUis Street 
Church, Boston. Becoming embroiled with 
his congregation on account of his sympathy 
with the abolition and temperance movements, 
he resigned his charge in 1845. Preached for a 
time at Troy, N. Y., and at Medford, Mass, 
Volunteered at the age of seventy-six as chap- 
lain in the Civil War, btit was soon afterward, 
in consideration of his infirmities, transferred 
to the Treasury Department, where he retained 
a clerkship until his death. Author of "Airs 
of Palestine, and Other Poems," 1816 and 1840 ; 
and "Poems," 1845. 

PIKE, Albert, lawyer, b. Boston, Mass., 
1809 ; d. Washington, D. C, 1891. Studied at 
Harvard. In 1831 he made Western explora- 
tions. Edited the " Arkansas Advocate." He 
was an olficei in the Mexican War, and after- 
wards as a Confederate general led Indians to 
battle in the Civil War. His nobly planned 
and classical " Hymns to the Gods," first pub- 
lished in "Blackwood's Magazine," 1839, were 
included in " Nugae," privately printed, 1854. 
General Pike rose to be at the head of Free- 
masonry in Ainerica. His " Morals and Dogma 
of Freemasonry " appeared in 1870. Editions 
of his " Poems " were issued in 1873 and 1881. 

PINKNEY, Edward Coate, b. London, 
England, 1802 ; d. Baltimore, Md., 1828. Son 
of William Pinkney, American minister to 
Great Britain. _ Entered the U. S. navy in 
1816, resigning in 1824. Practised law at Bal- 
timore, but without success, and fell into an 
early decline. His " Poems," a tiny volume 
containing some exquisite songs, was published 
ill 1825. 

POB, Edgar Allan, b. Boston, Mass., 19 
Jan., 1809 ; d. Baltimore, Md.,_7 Oct., 1849. In 
1811, on the death of both his parents in the 
same week. Poe was received into the family 
of Mr. and Mrs. Allan, at Richmond, Va. He 
was sent to a small private school, and, being 
a child of great beauty and precocious talents, 
won his way in aU hearts. He had a talent 
for declamation, probably inherited from his 
parents, who were actors by profession, and he 
often recited before company. In 1815 he was 
taken abroad with the family, and put to school 
near London. In 1820 the Allans returned to 
Richmond, where he was set to his studies 



8i6 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



under a new master. He was an acknowledged 
leader among his schoolmates, and in 1824 be- 
came lieutenant of the Richmond Junior Vol- 
unteers. He was usually at the head of his 
classes, learning without effort, and constantly 
writing verses, sometimes in Latin. In athlet- 
ics he was foremost of the boys, renowned es- 
pecially for his feats of swimming. He entered, 
1826, the University of Virginia, where his 
scholarship was satisfactory, but where a fond- 
ness for excitants seems to have taken hold of 
him never to relinquish its grasp. Mr. Allan 
refused to honor his debts, but started him in 
a commercial career. The prospect was not 
attractive to the young man, and he ran away 
to Boston, enlisting in the army, 1827, under 
the alias "Edgar Perry." He seems to_ have 
devoted his spare time to literature, and in the 
summer of the war published a pamphlet en- 
titled "Tamerlane and Other Poems, by a 
Bostonian." In 1829 his second publication 
appeared, " Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and Minor 
Poems," under his own name. In 1830 he en- 
tered West Point, but within the next year 
brought about his own expulsion. At the same 
time, in 1831, obtaining subscriptions from his 
mates, he issued a volume of " Poems." After 
the death of his patroness, Mrs. Allan, and the 
remarriage of her husband, Poe had no hope of 
further assistance from the latter. He went to 
Baltimore, living with his aunt, Mrs. Clemm. 
His first bit of good fortune was in 1833, when 
the "Saturday Visitor" awarded him a prize 
of $100 for the "MS. Found in a Bottle." 
In 1835 T. W. White, the editor of "The 
Southern Literary Messenger," gave him some 
remunerative employment. In 1836 he mar- 
ried his cousin Virginia Clemm, a girl of thir- 
teen. In 1837 he went to New York, and in 
the next year the ' ' Narrative of Arthur Gordon 
Pym" was brought out. He then removed to 
Philadelphia, contributed to many periodicals, 
and published " The Conchologist's First 
Book." Shifting to New York again, he be- 
came associate editor of Burton's " Gentle- 
man's Magazine," 1839. His connection with 
the paper lasted one year. His stories were 
collected, 1810, under the title "Tales of the 
Arabesque and Grotesque," and in 1843 "The 
Prose Romances of Edgar A. Poe " appeared, 
and met with favor. He continued to contri- 
bute to the periodicals, notably a succession of 
critical and personal sketches of contemporary 
American authors, and had intervals of energy 
and hopefulness, alternating with attacks of 
inebriation and despondency. In 1845 a volume 
of "Tales" and "The Raven and Other 
Poems " appeared. The " Raven " was copied 
everywhere, and Poe suddenly found himself 
the most talked-of writer of the day. He 
seems never to have abandoned the hope of 
publishing a magazine of his own. In 1846 he 
moved to a cottage at Fordham with his wife, 
who was dangerously ill with consumption, and 
in January of the next year she died. In 1848 
"Eureka; a Prose Poem" was published. In 
the summer of 1849 he revisited Richmond, 



where he lectured with success, was socially 
well received, and regained his vagrant hope- 
fulness. He left in September, starting north, 
but did not get beyond B aitimore . There he was 
taken to the Washington Hospital in a stupor, 
and died after four days of delirium. From. 
that time the world has mourned the imtimely 
end of a man of genius, who struggled ineffec- 
tually against the recurrent habits that de- 
stroyed him. His work, for all its charm and 
its wonder, is the uneven and unfulfilled sug- 
gestion of what might have been. Rufus Wil- 
uiot Griswold, whom the poet made liis literary 
executor, promptly brought together his ' ' Tales, 
Poems, and Essays" in three volumes, 1850; 
and a fourth volume, containing "Arthur Gor- 
don Pym and Miscellanies," was added in 1856. 
Since then Poe's writings have been repeatedly 
translated into French, German, Italian, etc., 
and many editions in English have been pub- 
lished. The definitive edition in ten volumes, 
edited and rearranged by Stedman and Wood- 
berry, with memoir, bibliography, critical intro- 
ductions, and variorum text of the poems, 
appeared in 1894-95. From the present con- 
densed note, most important details of an ex- 
ceptional career are necessarily absent. For an 
inclusive and critical review of the most famous 
Southern poet, essayist, and romancer, cp. 
" Poets of America," chap. vii. [b. d. l.] 

POLLOCK, Edward, b. Philadelphia, 
Penn., 1823; d. San Francisco, Gal., 1858. 
When a child he worked in a cotton factory, 
and at fourteen became a sign-painter's appren- 
tice. In 1852 he went to California, where he 
was admitted to the bar. He wrote for the 
"San Francisco Pioneer," and in 1876 his poems 
were collected posthumously. 

PRATT, Anna Maria, b. Chelsea, Mass., 
18 — . For some years engaged in teaching. A 
resident of Cleveland, Ohio. Has written 
chiefly for children's periodicals. Author of 
" Little Rhymes for Little People," 1896. 

PRENTICE, George Denison, journalist, 
b. Preston, Conn., 1802 ; d. Louisville, Ky., 
1870. After a brief experience as editor in 
Connecticut he removed to Kentucky, assuming 
charge of the Louisville "Journal," which he 
edited until his death! " Prenticeana, or Wit 
and Humor," appeared in 1860. A volume of 
his " Poems " was brought out in 1876. 

PRESTON, Margaret (Junkin) b. Phila- 
delphia, Penn., 1820 ; d. Baltimore, Md., 1897. 
Her father, Rev. Dr. Junkin, was founder of 
Lafayette College. In 1848 he was made presi- 
dent of Washington and Lee University, Lexing- 
ton, Va., which place became the daughter's 
home. She had written considerably when, in 
1857, she was married to Col. John T. L. Pres- 
ton. Her books of verse include "Beechen- 
brook, a Rhyme of the War," 1866 ; " Old Songs 
and New, " 1870 ; " Cartoons," 1875 ; " For 
Love's Sake," 1887; and "Colonial Ballads, 
Sonnets, and Other Verse," 1887. Among her 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



817 



other works are " The Young Ruler's Ques- 
tion ; " " Silverwood, " a novel ; and " A Hand- 
ful of Monographs." 

PROCTOK, Edna Dean, b. Henniker, 

N. H., 1838. She has made her home in Con- 
cord, N. H., Brooklyn, N. Y., and South Fra- 
mingham, Mass., spending much time in Eu- 
rope. Author of " Poems," 186G ; "A Russian 
Journey," 1872; "The Song of the Ancient 
People," 1892. 

PROUDFIT, David Law, b. Newburgh, 
N. J., 1842 ; d. New York, N. Y., 1897. He 
enlisted in the U. S. army at the outbreak of 
the Civil War, and became a major. After- 
wards in business in New York City. He was 
induced to adopt a pseudonym, " Peleg Ark- 
wright," which he later discarded. Author of 
"Love among the Gamins,',' 18T7 ; "The Man 
from the West," " Mask and Domino," poems, 
1888. 

PULLEN, Elisabeth (Jones), (EUsabeth 
Cavazza), b. Portland, Me., 18—. Daughter of 
Charles Jones, a merchant of that city, where 
she has always resided. She was first married 
to Nino Cavazza, an Italian gentleman. Her 
second husband is Stanley T. Pullen, a journal- 
ist and financier of Portland. For several years 
Mrs. Pullen was a staff writer for the " Literary 
World " of Boston. Her contributions of verse 
and prose to the periodicals have been not nu- 
merous, but of a very high order. Her metri- 
cal satires, "Algernon in London" and "Al- 
fernon the Footstool-Bearer," published in the 
'ortland "Transcript" some years ago, at- 
tracted wide attention. Some of her short stories 
were issued as "Don Finimondone: Italian 
Sketches," 1892, 

PULLEN, Eugene Henry, b. Baltimore, 
Md., 1832 ; d. Brooklyn, 1899. He was vice- 
president of the " National Bank of the Re- 
public " of New York, president of the "Ameri- 
can Bankers' Association," 1895-96. His 
"Now I lay me down to Sleep," p. 470, was 
published many years before Eugene Field's 
poem, p. 527, on the same theme. 

RANDALL, James Ryder, journalist, b. 
Baltimore, Md., 1839. He was a stiident at 
Georgetown College, D. C. ; was afterwards 
connected with the New Orleans "Sunday 
Delta. ' ' At Poydras College, La. , he composed, 
in 1861, the battle-hymn "Maryland, My 
Maryland!" In 1866 Mr. Randall became 
editor-in-chief of the Augusta, Ga., " Constitu- 
tionalist," and more recently was a member of 
the staff of the Baltimore " American." He is 
now a press correspondent at Washington and 
Augusta. His poems, appearing in various peri- 
odicals and compilations, are uncollected. 

RANDOLPH, Anson Davies Fitz, pub- 
lisher, b. Woodbridge, N. J., 1820 ; d. West- 
hampton, L. I., N. Y., 1896. He conducted a 
publishing house in New York, over his own 
name, from 1851 to his death. "Hopefully 
Waiting, and Other Verses," 1867 (enlarged 



edition, 1885), is a coUeetion of his religious 
poetry. Its title-poem is widely familiar. 

RANKIN, Jeremiah Fames, educator, b. 
Thornton, N. H., 1828. He graduated at 
Middlebury College, and entered the Congrega- 
tional ministry. He became president of 
Howard University, Washington, in 1889. Some 
of Dr. Rankin's hymns have found place in the 
religious collections. Beside his prose volumes, 
he is the author of " Auld Scotch Mither, and 
Other Poems," 1873; " Ingleside Rhaims," 
1887 ; " Broken Cadences," 1889 ; "Hymns Pro 
Patria," 1889; and " German-Enghsh Lyrics," 
1897. Stanzas of Dr. Rankin's charming little 
lyric " The Babie " have been wrongly but not 
unnaturally attributed by collectors to the pen 
of Hugh Miller, the Scottish geologist, and the 
error was repeated by the present editor in the 
early editions of his "Victorian Anthology." 
For this mistake he now makes amends. The 
poem has been expunged from the last-named 
collection and now appears, on page 296 of this 
volume, accredited to its veritable author, 

" RAYMOND, Grace." — See Annie Eay- 
mond Stillman. 

READ, Thomas Buchanan, artist, b. 
Chester Co., Penn., 12 March, 1822 ; d. New 
York, N. _Y., 11 May, 1872. He studied por- 
trait painting as a specialty, and practised his 
art in various Eastern cities. For several years 
his studies were carried on at Rome, which city 
he revisited later in life. Mr. Read was chiefly 
identified with Philadelphia, where he brought 
out his first volume " of Poems, " in 1847. Beside 
editing a well-known collection of verse, " The 
Female Poets of America," 1848, illustrated by 
engravings from his own portraits, he published 
his "Lays and Ballads," 1848; "The New 
Pastoral," 1855 ; " The Wagoner of the Alle- 
ghanies," 1862 ; and "A Summer Story, Sheri- 
dan's Ride, and Other Poems," 1865. 

REALF, Richard, b. Framfield, near 
Lewes, Sussex, England, 1834 ; d. by his own 
hand, Oakland, Cal., 1878. He wrote verses 
when about fifteen, and won the regard of the 
poet Rogers, Miss Mitford, Miss Martineau, — 
and of Lady Byron, who made him steward on 
one of her estates. His first volume of poems, 
" Guesses at the Beautiful," London, 1852, was 
edited by Thackeray's nephew Charles de la 
Pryme. In 1854 he emigrated to Kansas, and, 
removing to New York, was an assistant at the 
Five Points House of Industry, 1855-56. He 
seconded the plans of John Brown, and just 
before the outbreak at Harper's Ferry went to 
Europe to give lectures in behalf of the anti- 
slavery movement. He enlisted in the Union 
army, and was commended for gallantry at 
Chickamauga and elsewhere. A posthumous 
edition of his poems, with a memoir by his 
loyal friend and executor. Colonel Richard J, 
Hinton, appeared in 1899. 

REESE, Lizette "Woodwortli, b. Waverly, 
Md., 186-. _ Early removed to Baltimore, which 
place has since been her residence. Author of 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



"A Branch of May," 1887; "A Handful of 
Lavender," 1891; '_'A Quiet Road," 1896. 
Miss Reese's poetry is of a rare quality, — ar- 
tistic, natural, beautiful witli the old-time 
atmosphere and associations, and at times ris- 
ing to a noble classicism, of which the lines 
"To a Town Poet," p. 611, afford a fine 
example. 

KICE, WaUaee, "Cecil de Groot," b. 
Hamilton, Canada, 1859, of American parent- 
age. Educated at Harvard, Class of 1883. 
Since 1890 has been engaged in critical as well 
as creative literary work : " Under the Stars, 
and Other Songs of the Sea" (Barrett East- 
man, collaborator), 1898; "Heroic Deeds," 
prose and verse, 1898 ; " Flymg Sands," verse, 
1898. Later, " Ballads of Valor and Victory," 
(Clinton Scollard, collaborator) ; " Great Trav- 
ellers." Also editor of "Poems," 1898, by 
Francis Brooks, and " Poems," by Rudyard 
Kipling. 

RICHARDS, Laura Elizabeth, b. Boston, 
Mass., 185-. The daughter of Samuel G. and 
Julia Ward Howe. In 1871 she married Henry 
Richards, of Gardiner, Me., where she after- 
wards resided. Author of successful books for 
children in prose and verse, and of poems and 
other contributions to the magazines. 

RICHARDSON, Charles Francis, b. Hal- 
lowell, Me., 1851. He graduated at Dartmouth 
College, where he was appointed professor of 
English literature in 1882, having served on 
the editorial staff of the " Independent " from 
1872-78. His books include the valued " Primer 
of American Literature," 1878, enlarged, 1896 ; 
"The Cross," verse, 1879; "The Choice of 
Books," 1881 ; an important " History of Amer- 
ican Literature," 2 vols., 1887-89; "The End 
of the Beginning," iiction, 1896. 

RICHARDSON, George Lynde, Williams 
CoUege, Class of 1888. 

RILEY, James Whitcomb, " Benj. F. 
Johnson of Boone," b. Greenfield, Ind., 1853. 
His father, an attorney of Greenfield, intended 
that his son should follow his own profession, 
but the latter tired of study and joined a 
patent-medicine travelling wagon. After vari- 
ous experiences as sign-painter, actor, etc., he 
returned and began newspaper work on a Green- 
field paper. He began contributing verse to the 
Indianapolis papers in 1873, and secured a po- 
sition on the "Journal " of that city, where he 
has since resided. More recently he has given 
readings from his poetry in all parts of the 
country with more than usual success. His first 
book of verse in the " Hoosier " dialect, " The 
Old Swimmin'-Hole, and 'LevenMore Poems," 
1883, has been followed by a series of volumes, 
the humor, pathos, originality, and natural 
sentiment of which have particularly endeared 
him to his countrymen. After whiles," 1888 ; 
" Old-Fashioned Roses," 1888; "Pipes o' Pan 
atZekesbiiry," 1889; "Rhymes of Childhood," 
1890; "Flying Islands of the Night," 1891; 



" Neighborly Poems," 1891 ; " An Old Sweet- 
heart of Mine," 1891 ; " Green Fields and Run- 
ning Brooks," 1892 ; " Poems here at Home," 
1893; "Armazindy," 1894; " A Child-World," 
1896 ; " Rubaiyat of Doe Sifers," 1899. " The 
Boss Girl, and Other Sketches," prose, appeared 
in 1886. 

RIVES, Amelia. — See Princess Troubets- 
koy. 

ROBINSON, Annie Douglas (Green), 
" Marian Douglas," b. Plymouth, N. H., 1842. 
A writer of Bristol, N. H., who has published 
"Picture Poems," for children, 1872; "Peter 
and Polly, or Home Life in New England One 
Hundred Years Ago," 1876. 

ROBINSON, Edwin Arlington, b. Head 
Tide, Me., 1869. Now a resident of New York 
City. Engaged in literary pursuits. His poetry 
has an individual cast, and is contained, thus 
far, in his two collections " The Torrent and 
the Night Before," 1896; "The Children of 
the Night," 1897. 

ROBINSON, Lucy Catlin (Bull), b. Hart- 
ford, Conn., 186-. With the exception of two 
years in Paris, she has lived in New York since 
1891. Author of " A Child's Poems," com- 
posed in her tenth year, and published with a 
preface by her mother. This unique volume 
gained critical attention, and was reviewed by 
the late Mr. Dennett, of " The Nation," as 
written by " One of America's Pet Marjories." 
In 1899 she was married to the poet Tracy 
Robinson of Colon, Panama, and accompanied 
her husband to the tropics, 

ROBINSON, Tracy, b. Clarendon, N. Y'., 
1833. He was educated at Rochester Univer- 
sity, and was an of&cial of railways in Tennes- 
see and Louisiana untU 1861, when he became 
connected with the Panama railroad, and re- 
moved to Colon, Panama. He has published 
"Song of the Palm and Other Poems," 1889, 
and contributed poems to the New York maga- 
zines. 

ROCHE, James Jeffrey, b. Queen's Co., 
Ireland, 1847. His early fife was passed in 
Prince Edward Island and at St. Dunstan's Col- 
lege. He has edited the Boston "Pilot " since 
1890, and published " Songs and Satires," 1887 ; 
" Life of John Boyle O'ReiUy," 1891 ; " Bal- 
lads of Blue Water," 1895 ; "The Vase and 
Other Bric-a-Brac," 1900. 

ROG:^, Madame. — See Charlotte {FisTce) > 
Bates. 

ROGERS, Robert Cameron, b. Buffalo, 
N. Y., 1862. Son of the late Sherman S. 
Rogers, a noted lawyer of Buffalo. Graduated 
at Yale, and afterwards resided in his native 
city, and at Santa Barbara, Cal., engaged in 
literary work. Author of two books of fiction, 
" Will o' the Wasp : a Sea Yarn of the War of 
1812," and " Old Dorset: Chronicles of a New 
York Country Side." His poems have been 
collected and published as " The Wind in the 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



819 



Clearing, aud Other Poems," 1895; "For the 
King-, and Other Poems," 1899. 

KOLLINS, Alice Marland (WeUington), 
b. Boston, Mass., 1847 ; d. Lawrence Park, 
Bronxville, N. Y., 1897. She received instruc- 
tion from her father, Ambrose Wellington, vis- 
ited Europe, and iu 1876 was married to Daniel 
M. EoUias, of New York City. She wrote 
" The Ring of Amethyst," poems, 1878 ; " The 
Story of a Ranch," 1885; "Uncle Tom's Ten- 
ement," 1888, and several books of travel, and 
was an efficient and favorite member of the 
N. Y. literary circles. 

ROOiraiY, John Jerome, broker, b. Bing- 
hamton, N. Y., 1866. Educated at Mt. St. 
Mary's College. He has devoted much time to 
journalistic work. His spirited poems relating 
to the phases and incidents of the Spanish- 
American war are a feature of its literature. 

KOSENBERG, James Naumburg, Colum- 
bia University, Class of 1895. 

KOSEKTFELD, Morris, b. Boksha, Poland, 
1861. Born of humble parents, he received the 
education that is given to Jewish boys of like 
origin. Some years ago, he came to this coun- 
try, and supported himself in the sweat-shops 
of New York City. Although well-read in 
German and English literature, he is master 
only of his native tongue — Yiddish. Mr. 
Rosenfeld was first known in literary circles 
by his " Songs from the Ghetto," translated by 
Leo Wiener, 1898. These songs, at once spon- 
taneous, simple, and pathetic, are fraught with 
the desolation and despair of life in the Jewish 
slums. The poem included in this Anthology 
was the first written in English by its author. 

BUWKLE, Bertha Brooks, b. Berkeley 
Heights, N. J., 18—. Daughter of the distin- 
guished critic and journalist, Mrs. Lucia Gilbert 
Runkle. Her serial romance, " The Helmet of 
Navarre," appeared in "The Century Maga- 
zine," 1900. 

KUSSELL, Irwin, b. Port Gibson, Miss., 
1853; d. New Orleans, La., 1879. Among 
Southern writers he was one of the first to in- 
troduce the negro character to metrical litera- 
ture. After his early death, his verse was col- 
lected, and published as "Poems," 1888. 

HYAN, Abram Joseph, " Father Ryan," 
b. Norfolk, Va., 1839 ;_d. Louisville, Ky., 1886. 
He was a Catholic priest and chaplain in the 
Confederate army, editor of several religious 
periodicals, and pastor of a church in Mobile, 
Ala. The title-piece of his volume, " The Con- 
quered Banner, and Other Poems," 1880, was 
written soon after Lee's surrender. He also 
published "Poems, Patriotic, Religious, and 
Miscellaneous," 1880, and "A Crown for Our 
Queen," 1882. He died before completing his 
" Life of Christ." 

"RYAN, Father." — See Abram Joseph 
Ryan. 



SALTUS, Francis Saltus, b. New York, 
N. Y., 1849 ; d._ Tarrytown, N. Y., 1889. Edu- 
cated in his native city and at the Roblot Insti- 
tution, Paris. He was an extensive traveller 
and mastered many languages. His first vol- 
ume of verse, " Honey and Gall," was published 
in 1873. A posthumous edition of his metrical 
works, in four volumes, was edited by his fa- 
ther, Francis H. Saltus. He left many writ- 
ings which have not yet seen the light, among 
which is said to be a noteworthy life of Doni- 
zetti. 

SANBORN", Franklin Benjamin, b. Hamp- 
ton Falls, N. H., 1831. A graduate of Harvard, 
1855. The next year he was elected secretary 
of the Mass. state Kansas committee. In 1866 
he began his continued service as literary cor- 
respondent of the Springfield "Republican," 
chiefly from Boston and Concord. Mr. Sanborn 
has been closely identified with, and often the 
inaugurator of, various social and political re- 
forms. He was one of the founders of the 
American Social Science Association and of the 
Concord School of Philosophy. He has written 
biographies of Thoreau, Emerson, Aleott, Dr. 
Earle, and John Brown, and with the latter was 
closely associated at historic periods of his ca- 
reer. The first two lines of the sonnet "Ari- 
ana," given in this Anthology, were Avritten by 
A. B. Aleott, at whose request Mr. Sanborn 
perfected the tribute to his own wife. 

SANDS, Robert Charles, journalist, b. 
Flatbush, L. I., 1799 ; d. Hoboken, N. J., 1832, 
Graduating from Columbia, 1815, he took up 
the study of law and was admitted to the bar, 
but practised only a few years. From early 
boyhood devoted to literature, both as a reader 
and writer, Mr. Sands had connections with 
several distinguished authors. He was co- 
editor with W. C. Bryant of the N. Y. "Re- 
view," 1825-27, and issued with Bryant and 
Verplanck the "Talisman," 1828-30. He was 
on the staff of the N. Y. " Commercial Adver- 
tiser " from 1827 until his death. His life of 
Paul Jones was published in 1831, and a post- 
humous edition of his collected "Writings," 
with a memoir by G. C. Verplanck, in 1834. 
Mr. Sands was cut down in the early prime of 
a notable career. 

SANGSTER, Margaret Elizabeth (Mun- 
son), journalist, b. New Roehelle, N. Y., 1838. 
Editor of ' ' Harper's Bazar, ' ' 1889-99. Formerly 
associate editor of the New York " Hearth and 
Home," " Christian at Work," and " Christian 
Intelligencer;" editor of "Harper's Young 
People," 1882-89. She has published "Poems 
of the Household," 1882 ; " Home Fairies and 
Heart Flowers," 1887; "Hours with Girls," 
and several other volumes of verse and juvenile 
books. 

SANTAYANA, George, b. Madrid, Spain, 
1863, of Spanish parentage. He graduated from 
Harvard in 1886, and has since been connected 
with that university as assistant professor of 
philosophy. His writings include "Sonnets 



820 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



and Other Poems," 1894; "The Sense of 
Beauty," 1896 ; "Lucifer, a Theolo^cal Tra- 
gedy," 1899; "Interpretations of Poetry and 
Religion," 1900. 

SABG-ENT, Epes, author of the song 
"A Life on the Ocean Wave," b. Gloucester, 
Mass., 1813; d. Boston, Mass., 1880. He was 
one of the editors of the New York " Mirror," 
and editor for several years of the Boston 
"Evening Transcript." His play " The Bride 
of Genoa," 1836, was performed with success 
and followed by three others: " Velasco," 
1837; "Change Makes Change," and "The 
Priestess." He published " Wealth and 
Worth," a novel, 1840; a "Life of Henry 
Clay," 1843, and a memoir of Benjamin Frank- 
lin ; "Songs of the Sea," poems, 1847; "Antic 
Adventures by Sea and Land," 1857 ; and 
several works on spiritualism. He compiled a 
" Cyclopaedia of English and American Poe- 
try," published after his death. 

SAKGENT, John Osborne, lawyer, b. 

Gloucester, Mass., 1811 ; d. New York, N. Y., 
1891. Brother of Epes Sargent. Graduating 
from Harvard in 1830, he studied law and was 
admitted to the Suffolk bar in 1833. In 1841, 
after several years of journalism as well, he be- 
came a member of the bar of the Supreme 
Court of the United States. During his prac- 
tice in Washington he was one of the managers 
of " The Republic." Mr. Sargent edited some 
of the English poets, with biographies. It was 
his purpose to make translations of all the Odes 
of Horace ; and though he did not live to com- 
plete this work, his "Horatian Echoes," 1893, 
issued posthumously, with an introduction by 
O. W. Holmes, contains the majority of the 
Odes. 

SAVAGE, Minot Judson, liberal Unitarian 
clergyman, b. Norridgewock, Me., 1841 ; edu- 
cated at Bowdoin CoUege and Bangor theolo- 
gical seminary. After some years of mission 
work in California, he was pastor, for twenty- 
two years, of the Church of the Unity, Boston, 
Mass., where his liberal preaching soon gathered 
a large congregation, and is now pastor of the 
Church of the Messiah, New York. Besides 
many books on religious and social themes, he 
has written " Bluffton, a Story of Today," 
1878; " Poems," 1882 ; " Life beyond Death," 
1899. 

SAVAGE, Philip Henry, b. North Brook- 
field, Mass., 1868 ; d. Mass., 1899. Son of the 
Rev. Minot Judson Savage. Graduated at 
Harvard University. His "First Poems and 
Fragments" appeared in 1895, and was fol- 
lowed by " Poems," in 1898. He died, with 
fortitude, almost at the outset of what promised 
to be an enviable career. 

SAXTON, Andrew Bice, b. Middlefield, 
N. Y., 1856. Graduated at Hartwick Semin- 
ary, N. Y. _ Was occupied as a farmer and 
teacher until 1890, when he accepted an edito- 
rial position on The Herald" of Oneonta, 
N.Y. 



SCHUYLER, Montgomery, journalist, b. 
Ithaca, N. Y., 1843. Son of the Rev. Anthony 
Schuyler, of Orange, N. J. Studied at Hobart 
College. He was connected with the N. Y. 
" World " from 1865 to 1883, and more or less 
with "Harper's Weekly," when he joined the 
editorial staff of the N. Y. " Times." He is 
engaged in preparing "A History of Architec- 
ture in the United States." 

SCOLLABD, Clinton, b. Clinton, N. Y., 
18 Sept., 1860. Graduated at Hamilton Col- 
lege, and took graduate courses at Harvard, 
and at Cambridge, England. He was professor 
of English Hterature at Hamilton College from 
1888 to 1896, Clinton being his permanent resi- 
dence. Author of " With Reed and Lyre," 
1886; "Old and _ New World Lyrics," 1888; 
" Giovo and Giulia," 1891 ; "Songs of Sunrise 
Lands," 1892; "Pictures in Songs," 1894; 
"The Hills of Song," 1895; "Skenandoa," 
1896 ; " A Boy's Book of Rhyme," 1896 ;_ and 
two prose works, " Under Summer Skies," 
1892 ; " On Sunny Shores," 1893. 

SCOTT, Mary McNeil. — See if. McN. 
FenoUosa. 

SCUDDEB, Eliza, b. Barnstable, Mass., 
1821 ; d. Weston, Mass., 1896. She was a 
daughter of Elisha Gage Scudder. The volume 
of her " Hymns and Sonnets," 1880, was reis- 
sued in 1896 with an introduction by her cousin, 
Horace E. Scudder. 

SEABING, Laura Catherine (Bedden), 
" Howard Glyndon," b. Somerset Co., Md., 
1840. She lost her speech and hearing at the 
age of ten, yet has done much journalistic 
work. In 1876 she was married to Edward W. 
Searing, of New York City, and in 1886 removed 
with him to CaUfornia. Author of " Idyls of 
Battle," 1864 ; " Sounds from Secret Cham- 
bers," 1873, 

SEABS, Edmund Hamilton, b. Sandisfield, 

Mass., 1810 ; d. Weston, Mass., 1876. Pastor of 
several Unitarian churches, and editor of " The 
Monthly Religious Magazine." He published 
"Christian Lyrics," 1860; "Sermons and 
Songs of the Christian Life," 1875; "That 
Glorious Song of Old," etc. 



SEW ALL, Alice Archer. 

Ja?nes. 



■ See A. A. (S.) 



SEW ALL, Frank, b. Bath, Me., 1837. 
Graduated at Bowdoin. A Swedenborgian 
minister living in Washington, D. C. Author 
of " Moody Mike, or the Power of Love," 1869 ; 
" Angelo, the Circus Boy," 1879 ; " The New 
Ethics," 1881 ; " Carducci and the Classic 
Realism," 1892 ; and a translation of Cardueci's 
poems, 1892. 

SEW ALL, Harriet (Winslow), b. Port- 
land, Me., 1819; d. Wellesley, Mass., 1889. 
She was twice married, in 1848 to Charles List, 
of Philadelphia, and in 1857 to Samuel E. SewaU, 
of Boston, and afterwards resided in the lastr 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



821 



named city. Her '' Poems " were published in 
1889, with a memoir by Ednah D. Cheney. 

BiIA"W", John, physician, b. Annapolis, Md., 
1778 ; d. on a voyage to the Bahamas, 1809. 
Took his degree in medicine in Philadelphia, 
and practised later at Baltimore. His 
" Poems," 1810, were collected by his friends 
and published after his death. The book is 
now very "rare." 

SHEPHERD, Wathaniel Graliam, journal- 
ist, b. New York, N. Y., 1835 ; d. there, 1869. 
During the Civil War he was for some time a 
war correspondent for the New York " Trib- 
une." Author of several stirring poems of 
army life. 

SHERMAN, Frank Dempster, educator, b. 
Pisekskill, N. Y., 6 May, 1860. He graduated 
at Columbia, and took a graduate course at 
Harvard. He became a fellow of Columbia in 
1887, and was instructor in architecture there 
until his appointment as adjunct professor. 
Though best known by his metrical work, he 
has done much literary reviewing. Author of 
" Madrigals and Catches," 1887 ; " Lyrics for a 
Lute," 1890; "Little-Folk Lyrics," 1892, en- 
larged edition, 1897. Joint author, with John 
Kendrick Bangs, of " New Waggings of Old 
Tales. By Two Wags," 1887. 

SHINW, MiUcent Washburn, b. Washing'- 
ton Township, Alameda Co., Cal., 1858. She 
graduated at the University of California, and 
in 1882 assumed the editorship of the new 
"Overland Monthly," which she held until 
1894. Besides her work of an editorial nature 
Miss Shinn has been a leading contributor to 
the magazines. Of late she has been engaged 
in the psychological study of children. Her 
investigations have met with both scientific and 
literary recognition and have brought her the 
degree of Ph. D. m. c. 1., from her own univer- 
sity. 

SICKLES, David Banks, diplomat, b. New 
York, N. Y., 1837. Engaged in newspaper 
work, and was a correspondent in the Civil 
War. He was United States minister to Siam 
from 1876 to 1881. He has lectured extensively 
on Oriental subjects, and is the author of 
"Leaves of the Lotus," 1896; " The Land of 
the Lotus," 1899, and of much miscellaneous 
prose and verse. 

"SIEGVOLK, Paul."— See Albert Ma- 
thews. 

SIGOURISTEY, Lydia (Huntley), educator 
and philanthropist, b. Norwich, Conn., 1 Sept., 
1791 ; d. Hartford, Conn., 10 June, 1865. A 
pioneer among American women in literature 
and in advocacy of the higher education for 
women. She taught for two years in Norwich, 
and afterward established her famous select 
school for young ladies at Hartford in 1814. 
She was married in 1819 to Charles Sigourney. 
Among her fifty-three volumes of prose and 
verse are "Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse," 
1815 ; " Traits of the Aborigines," 1822 ; 
" Poems by the Author of Moral Pieces," 1827 ; 



"Poetry for Children," 1823; " ZinzendorfF, 
and Other Poems," 1836 ; " Pocahontas, and 
Other Poems," 1841 ; " Water Drops, a Plea 
for Temperance," 1847; "Post Meridian," 
1854 ; " The Daily Counsellor," poems, 1858 ; 
"The Man of Uz, and Other Poems," 1862; 
" Letters of Life," issued posthiunously, 1866. 

SILL, Edward Rovsrland, b. Windsor, 
Conn., 1841 ; d. Cleveland, O., 1887. He was 
graduated at Yale in 1861, and after teaching 
several years at Cuyahoga Falls, 0., was pro- 
fessor of English literature at the University 
of California, 1874-82. He wrote " Hermione, 
and Other Poems," 186- ; " The Hermitage, 
and Later Poems," 1867; "The Venus of 
Milo, and other Poems," a posthumous volume, 
1888; and a posthumous collection of "The 
Prose of Edward Rowland Sill: Being Essays 
in Literature and Education, and Friendly 
Letters," 1900. SUl was a man of rare temper- 
ament and insight, and those who knew him 
have never ceased to regret his loss. 

SIMMS, William Gilmore, novelist, b. 
Charleston, S. C, 1806 ; d. there, 1870. Pub- 
lished " Lyrical and Other Poems," 1826. Be- 
came editor and owner of the Charleston " City 
Gazette . ' ' His best-known poem is ' ' Atalantis, 
a Tale of the Sea," 1832. Among his colonial, 
Revolutionary, and frontier novels are "Ye- 
massee," " The Partisan," 1835 ; " Castle Dis- 
mal," 1845 ; " The Wigwam and the Cabin, or 
Tales of the South," 1845-46. Wrote biogra- 
phies of Marion, Greene, Capt. John Smith, 
Chevalier Bayard. " A History of South Car- 
olina" appeared in 1840; " Areytos, or Songs 
and Ballads of the South," in 1846 ; and his 
selected works ia 19 vols., 1859. He wrote a 
number of dramas for the stage. 

SMITH, Elizabeth Oakes (Prince), b. 
Cumberland, Me., 1806; d. 1893. Her later 
years were spent in New York, N. Y., and 
Hollywood, S. C. Wife of the journalist and 
satirist Seba Smith. She advocated woman's 
rights, and was the earliest woman lecturer in 
America. Author of " The Sinless Child and 
Other Poems," 1841; "Old New York, or 
Jacob Leisler," a tragedy, etc. Her children 
assumed the name of Oaksmith. 

SMITH, Harry Bache, librettist, b. Buf- 
falo, N. Y., 1860. He wrote dramatic and liter- 
ary criticisms for the newspajjer press until he 
turned his attention to dramatic authorship. 
" The Begum," his first opera, was produced 
in 1887. Of the many others " Robin Hood " 
appeared in 1891, and "Rob Roy" in 1893. 
His miscellaneous poems were published as 
" Lyrics and Sonnets," 1894, 

SMITH, Mary (" May") Louise Riley, b. 
Brighton, N. Y., 1842. After her marriage to 
Albert Smith she removed to New York City. 
She has published " A Gift of Gentians, and 
Other Verses," 1882 ; " The Inn of Rest," 1888 ; 
" Cradle and Armchair," poems, 1893 ; " Some- 
time, and Other Poems," 1897. 



822 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



SMITH, Samuel Francis, Baptist clergy- 
man, b. Boston, Mass., 1808 ; d. Bridgeport, 
Conn., 1895. He wrote " America," " The 
Morning Light is Breaking," 1832, and many 
other hymns; "Knights and Sea Kings;" 
"Mythology and Early Greek History," and 
" Poor Boys Who Became Great," for the 
young. He edited "Lyric Years" and " The 
Psalmist," 1843 ; " Bock of Ages," 1866. 

SPALDING, John Lancaster, Catholic 
bishop of Peoria, 111., b. Lebanon, Ky., 1840. 
He is actively interested in education and liter- 
ature. Author of a "Life of Archbishop 
Spalding," his uncle, 1872; "Essays and Ee- 
views," 1876 ; " America, and Other Poems," 
1885 ; " The Poet's Praise," 1891 ; " Education 
and the Higher Life," 1891 ; " Things of the 
Mind," 1894; "Songs, Chiefly from the Ger- 
man," 1896. Bishop Spalding is one of the 
most refined and imaginative of latter-day med- 
itative poets. 

SPALDING, Susan (Marr), b. Bath, Me., 
18 — . She was educated at a young ladies' 
seminary. Her parents' death occasioned her 
rem.oval to the home of relatives in New York, 
where she married a gentleman of that city. 
A' few years later she made Philadelphia her 
permanent residence. Author of " The Wings 
of Icarus, and Other Poems," 1892. 

SPINGAKN, Joel Elias, Columbia Uni- 
versity, Class of 1895. 

SPOPFOED, Harriet Elizabeth (Pres- 
cott), b. Calais, Me., 1835. She studied at 
Pinkerton Academy, Derry, N. H. Her father 
becoming an invalid, she added to her family's 
scanty income by writing stories for periodicals. 
Her first story of unusual merit was " In a 
Cellar," "Atlantic Monthly," 1859. Since her 
marriage to Richard S. SpofEord, she has lived 
on Deer Island, in the Merrimae River, near 
Newburyport, Mass. Her works include " Sir 
Rohan's Ghost," 1859; "The Amber Gods, 
and Other Stories," 1863, which gave her an 
instant reputation; "Azarian," an episode, 
1864; "New England Legends," 1871 ; "The 
Thief in the Night," 1872 ; " Marquis of Cara- 
bas," poems, 1882 ; " Ballads about Authors," 
1887 ; " In Titian's Garden, and Other Poems," 
1897. 

SPRAGUB, Charles, b. Boston, Mass., 
1791 ; d. there, 1875. From 1824 to 1865 he was 
cashier of the dobe Bank in Boston. Mr. 
Sprague was a pioneer among the early Ameri- 
can poets, and was greatly honored by his own 
generation. Author of " The Winged Wor- 
shippers," "Curiosity," "The Family Meet- 
ing," and other poems included in a collected 
edition of "Poetical and Prose Writings," 
1841 (revised eds. 1850-76). 

STANTON, Frank Lebby, journalist, b. 
Charleston, S. C., 1857. A resident of Atlanta, 
Ga., and a member of the staff of the " Atlanta 
Constitution. ' ' Author of ' ' Songs of the Soil, ' ' 
1894 ; " Comes One with a Song," 1899. His 



lyrics are familar to all newspaper readers, and 
are widely popular. 

STAKR, Hattie, composer, b. Rome, N. Y., 
18 — . She married the late Chas. L. Harris, an 
actor. Miss Starr is the composer, as well as 
the verse-maker, of many popular songs. Her 
"Little Alabama Coon" is perhaps the most 
notable example of the so-called " coon-songs," 
a typical class of attempts to revive for the end 
of the century something of th^ melody and 
charm belonging to the earlier songs of the 
South. 

STBBBINS, Mary Elizabeth (Moore) 
(Hewitt), b. Maiden, Mass., 1818 ; was married 
to James L. Hewitt, and in 1829 removed to 
New York. She wrote a "Memorial of F. S. 
Osgood ; " " Songs of Our Lord, and Other 
Poems," 1845; "Heroines of History;" 
"Poems Sacred, Passionate, and Legendary." 
Her poem "Harold the Valiant" appeared 
closely upon the date of Longfellow's " Skeleton 
in Armor^' with which it has points of resem- 
blance. The present editor has been unable to 
determine which lyric has the right of chro- 
nological precedence. 

STEDMAN, Edmund Clarence, b. Hart- 
ford, Conn., 8 Oct., 1833. (Son of Mrs. E. C. 
Kinney, q. v.) He entered Yale at the age of 
fifteen, and took first prize for his poem on 
" Westminster Abbey," but was suspended for 
irregularities at the end of his sophomore year. 
In 1871, he was restored to his class (that of '53) 
and given the degree of M. A. Edited the 
Norwich " Tribune " and Winsted "Herald," 
1852-55, but in the latter year went to New 
York. After a temporary Connection with 
Greeley's " Tribune " — where he first printed 
his " Tribune Lyrics " (" Osawatomie Brown," 
" The Diamond Wedding," etc.) — he joined 
the stafB of the N. Y. "World" in 1860, and 
was its war correspondent, 1861-63. For a 
time he served in Washington under Lincoln's 
attorney general, Edward Bates. In 1864 he 
aided in the construction and financiering of the 
first section of the first Pacific Railway. This led 
him into Wall Street, and, desiring to have time 
and means for strictly literary work, he there 
remained from 1864 ; becoming, 1869, an active 
member of the Stock Exchange, and holding his 
seat untU 1900. Among his works are " Poems 
Lyric and Idyllic," 1860; "Alice of Mon- 
mouth," 1863 •" The Blameless Prince," 1869 ; 
" Victorian Poets," 1875 (London 1876) ; 
"Hawthorne, and Other Poems," 1877; 
" Lyrics and Idylls " (London), 1879 ; " Poems, 
Household Edition," 1884; "Poets of Amer- 
ica," 1885; "The Nature and Elements of 
Poetry " (lectures forming the initial course 
of the Turnbull Chair of Poetry, Johns Hopkins 
Univ.), 1892 ; " Poems Now First Collected," 
1897. Since 1866 has worked for international 
copyright, and succeeded Mr. Lowell as pres- 
ident of the American Copyright League in 
1891. He re-delivered his lectures on poetry at 
the University of Pennsylvania, and at Colum- 
bia University, and received from Columbia the 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



823 



degree of L. H. D. In 1894, his Alma Mater, 
Yale, gave him the degree of LL. D., and he 
■wrote the " Commenceiueut Ode," set to im- 
posing music by Prof. Parker and sung at Yale 
on stated occasions. Has edited, among other 
works, "A Library of American Literature^" 
with Ellen M. Hutchinson, 1888-89; "The 
Works of Edgar Allan Poe," with G. E. Wood- 
berry, 1895; "A Victorian Anthology," 1895. 
The present Anthology completes a critical 
series begun in " Victorian Poets." [l. C. b.] 

STEIN, Evaleen, b. LaFayette, Ind., 18—, 
where she still resides. Besides poetic contri- 
butions to various periodicals and her chil- 
dren's stories of old Provence, Miss Stein has 
published " One Way to the Woods,'] 1897, a 
collection of lyrics showing a very genuine gift. 

"STERNE, STUAKT." — See Gertrude 
Bloede. 

STETSON, Charlotte (Perkins), socialist, 
b. Hartford, Conn., 186-. Great-granddaugh- 
ter of Lyman Beecher. Much of her time has 
been given to lecturing on various reforms. 
Mrs. Stetson received the gold medal of the 
Alameda Country Trades and Labor Union for 
an essay on " The Labor Movement," and is 
the author of " Woman and Economics." " In 
this our World," verse, was pubUshed in 1893. 

STETSON, Grace Ellery Channlng. — See 
Mrs. Channing-Stetson. 

STIUjMAN, Annie Raymond, " Grace 
Raymond," b. Charleston, S. C, 1855. De- 
scended from Elias Badeau, one of the Hugue- 
not settlers in New Rochelle. Resided at 
Charleston until 1892, when she removed to 
Birmingham, Ala. Author of "How They 
Kept the Faith : a Tale of the Huguenots of 
Languedoe," 1889, and of occasional poems and 
sketcties. 

STOCKARD, Henry Jerome, educator, b. 
North Carolina, 1858. Graduated from the 
lAiiversity of North Carolina, where he was 
afterwards associate professor. Later he was 
professor at Fredericksburg College. His 
" Fugitive Lines " appeared in 1897. 

STODDARD, Charles "Warren, b. Roches- 
ter, N. Y., 1843. When a boy he received en- 
couragement from Bret Harte, who edited his 
first book of verse. Some of his life since 
1864 has been spent in the Hawaiian Islands. 
From 1873 to 1878 he visited many countries as 
correspondent of the San Francisco "Chron- 
icle." He was professor of English literature 
at Notre Dame College, Ind., and is now a lec- 
turer on English literature at the Catholic 
University, Washington, D. C. Author of 
"Poems," 1867; "South Sea Idyls," 1873; 
"Summer Cruising in the South Seas," 1874; 
"Mashallah!" 1880; "The Lepers of Molo- 
kai," 1885. The first selection from Mr. Stod- 
dard's^ verse, p. 445, is a poem delivered on the 
reception by the Bohemian Club of a royal 
mummy from the tombs of Egypt. 



STODDARD, Elizabeth Drew (Barstow), 
b. Mattapoisett, Mass., 6 May, 1823. Her fa- 
ther was connected with shipping interests. 
Mrs. Stoddard was educated at a young ladies' 
seminary. She was married to Richard Henry 
Stoddard, the poet, in 1851, and since then has 
resided in New York City. She began to con- 
tribute poems to the periodicals a few years 
after her marriage. In 1862 the first of her 
highly original novels, " The Morgesons," ap- 
peared, followed by "Two Men," 1865, and 
'Temple House," 1867. They were reissued 
in 1888, with an introduction by the editor of 
this work. Her " Poems " were collected and 
published in 1895. A series of articles giving 
Mrs. Stoddard's recollections of " Literary Folk 
as They Came and Went, with Ourselves," 
appeared in the "Saturday Evening Post" of 
Philadelphia, 1900. 

STODDARD, Lavinia (Stone), b. Guilford, 
Conn., 1787 ; d. Blakely, Ala., 1820. She was 
the wife of Dr. WilHam Stoddard, and with him 
conducted an academy at Troy, N. Y. Her 
poem " The Soul's Defiance " is the best-known 
of her writings. 

STODDARD, Richard Henry, poet and 
journalist, b. Hingham, Mass., 2 July, 1825. 
His father was a sea-captain, and was lost at 
sea ; his mother removed to New York in 1835, 
and there re-married. The son obtained his 
education at the public schools of that city, and 
sought work in an iron foundry, which he con- 
tinued until 1849, supplementing his earlier 
studies by reading the best authors, and more 
particularly poetry. He made friends with 
Bayard Taylor, just after the publication of 
the latter's " Views Afoot." Mrs. Caroline 
Kirkland was then editing the "Union Maga- 
zine," and going abroad in 1847, she left the 
magazine in Mr. Taylor's charge, and recom- 
mended Mr. Stoddard to him. Stoddard's first 
poem appeared in this magazine, and in 1849 he 
issued a small volume of verse, "Footprints," 
the edition of which was afterwards suppressed. 
Failing health having obliged him to give up 
his occupation at the foundry, he devoted him- 
self altogether to literary work. He became a 
contributor to the " Knickerbocker " and other 
leading magazines ; and his second volume, 
"Poems," was published in 1852, containing 
"Leonatus," " The Witch's Whelp," and other 
poems, which brought him into much favor. 
He had become acquainted with Read, Boker, 
and other prominent authors of Philadelphia, 
Boston, and New York, and visited Hawthorne 
at Concord, with James T. Fields and Edwin 
P. Wliipple, in the summer of 1852. In 1852, 
also, he married Miss Elizabeth Barstow, of 
Mattapoisett, Mass. The following year, with 
the assistance of Hawthorne, he obtained a 
position in the New York custom-house, which 
he held until 1870, having found that the liter- 
ary market of that time gave returns that 
needed supplementing by another means of 
support. The poems contained in "Songs of 
Summer," 1857, had appeared in "Putnam's 



824 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



Monthly " and other periodicals, and this book 
marked a new phase in American poetry, 
wholly devoted as it was to beauty and feeling, 
and not to didactics or reform. Mr. Stoddard 
■was literary editor of the N. Y. " World " from 
1860 to 1870. " The King's Bell," a narrative 
poem, appeared in 1863, as also the grandly 
phrased " Abraham Lincoln : a Horatian Ode," 
1865 ; and these confirmed his reputation. 
They were followed by " The Book of the 
East," 1867. From 1859 to 1861 the Stoddards 
and Taylors occupied the same house in New 
York, and in the former year their long friend- 
ship with the editor of the present work began. 
In 1872, Stoddard became editor of " The Al- 
dine," a New York literary journal, which he 
managed for several years. From 1880 to the pre- 
sent time he has been literary editor of the N. Y. 
" Mail and Express." His studies in early and 
recent English poetry, which have made him a 
leading authority on this subject, have taken 
shape in several volunaes. "The Loves and 
Heroines of the Poets," 1861", is of biographical, 
critical, and descriptive character. He edited 
' ' Melodies and Madrigals, mostly from the Old 
English Poets," 1865, and selections from "The 
Late English Poets," 1865. More recently he has 
edited, with W. J. Linton, " English Verse," in 
five volumes, 1883 ; and a volume of his essays, 
chiefly concerning nnodern English poets, has 
been published as " Under the Evening Lamp," 
1892. Mr. Stoddard also edited the enlarged 
edition of Griswold's " Poets and Poetry of 
America" and "Female Poets of America," 
1872-73, and wrote a Memoir of Poe for the re- 
issue of Griswold's edition of the "Select 
Works." 1880. He prepared the monographs 
on Bryant, Irving, Shelley, and other authors, 
and edited the " Bric-a-Brac " series, in ten vol- 
umes, 1874-76. A collective edition of his 
" Poems " appeared in 1880. His later poetry 
is mostly contained in "The Lion's Cub, with 
Other Verse," 1890. He delivered, before the 
Army of the Potomac, at Springfield, Mass., a 
poem entitled "The Victories of Peace" in 
1878, and the same year recited his poem " His- 
tory," before the Phi Beta Kappa Society at 
Harvard. Mr. Stoddard was the guest of the 
Authors Club, assisted by members of the Cen- 
tury Association, at New York, at a brilliant 
dinner given in his honor on March 26, 1897. 
His voice is as lyrical, and his touch as fine and 
strong as ever, despite the years that weigh 
upon the most distinguished of living American 
poets. The poem of " The Witch's Whelp," 
p. 279, was written as a companion piece to, 
and at the same time with, Bayard Taylor's 
"Ariel," p. 271. Cp. " Poets of America," 
pp. 57, 58, 403, and " The Nature and Elements 
of Poetry," p. 252. 

STORY, ■William "Wetmore, sculptor, b. 
Salem, Mass., 12 Feb., 1819; d. Vallombrosa, 
near Florence, Italy, 7 Oct., 1895. He was 
a son of Justice Joseph Story, of the U. S. 
Supreme Court. Graduating at Harvard, and 
entering the bar, he was occupied with legal 
work until 1848, preparing several volumes 



of law books ; but in that year he abandoned 
his profession, and thereafter making his resi- 
dence in Rome, devoted himself to sculpture, 
in which art he gained a leading position. Mr. 
Story's "Poems" appeared in 1847, and was 
followed by numerous volumes of poetry, fic- 
tion, and essays. Among his poems "Cleo- 
patra " is perhaps the best known. His books 
include "Life and Letters of Joseph Story," 
1851 ; " Roba di Roma," prose, ^862 ; " Graf- 
fiti d' Italia," poems, 1868 ; " Nero: an Histor- 
ical Play," 1875 ; "He and She ; or a Poet's 
Portfolio," 1883 ; " Fiammetta," a novel, 1885 ; 
" Poems," 1886 ; " Conversations in a Studio," 
1890 ; and " Excursions in Art and Letters," 
essays, 1891. 

STOWE, Mrs. Harriet Elizabeth 
Beecher, b. Litchfield, Conn., 14 June, 1812 ; 
d. Hartford, Conn., 1 July, 1896. Before re- 
moving to Cincinnati with her father, Lyman 
Beecher, in 1832, she studied and taught in her 
sister Catherine's school at Hartford. In 1836 
she was married to the Rev. Calvin E. Stowe, 
of Lane Seminary. Having strong anti-slavery 
opinions, they received fugitives in their home, 
and were close observers of slavery in the 
Southern States. In 1849 Mrs. Stowe published 
" The Mayflower, or Short Sketches of the 
Descendants of the Pilgrims." "Uncle Tom's 
Cabin, or Life Among the Lowly," first ap- 
peared, as a serial, in the Washington " Na- 
tional Era," in 1851 ; in 1852 it was issued in 
book-form, and by the end of the year, it is 
said, its sale on both sides of the water had 
amounted to more than a million copies. "A 
Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin " and " A Peep for 
Children into Uncle Tom's Cabin " appeared in 

1853. After her fiirst visit to Europe, where 
she was received with great distinction, she 
published, with her husband, two volumes of 
travel, "Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands," 

1854. Among later works by this world-famous 
woman are " Dred, a Tale of the Great Dismal 
Swamp," 1856; "The Minister's Wooing," 
1859; "The Pearl of Orr's Island," 1862 ; 
"Agnes of Sorrento," 1862; "Religious 
Poems," 1865; "Men of our Times," 1868; 
" Lady Byron Vindicated, a History of the 
Byron Controversy," 1869 ; "Pink and White 
Tyranny," 1871; "Palmetto Leaves," 1873; 
"Footsteps of the Master," 1876; " Poganuc 
People," 1878 ; "A Dog's Mission," 1881. 

STREET, Alfred Billings, b. Poughkeepsie, 
N. Y., 1811; d. Albany, N. Y.. 1881. For 
thirty-three years librarian of New York 
State. Author of " The Burning of Schenec- 
tady, and Other Poems," 1842 ; " Drawings and 
Tintings," poems, 1844; "Fugitive Poems," 
1846 ; "Frontenac, or the Atotarho of the Iro- 
quois, a Metrical Romance," celebrating the 
expedition of Frontenac, governor-general of 
Canada, against the Iroquois ; London and New 
York, 1849 ; "Forest Pictures in the Adiron- 
dacks," 1865. 

SUTPHEW, 'William Gilbert van Tassel, 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



825 



b. Philadelphia, Penn., 1861. Since graduating 
at Princeton he has been engaged in editorial 
work, residing at Morristown, N. J. Author 
of fugitive poems and sketches, and of "The 
Golficide," 1898; "The Golfer's Alphabet," 
1898. 

S-WIFT, Frances Dorr.— See F. D. S. 
Tatnall. 

TABB, John Banister, b. Amelia Co., Va., 
1845. A Catholic priest, instructor in English 
literature in St. Charles College, Ellicott City, 
Md. He served as captain's mate on a blockade- 
runner in the Civil VVar ; was ordained in 1884, 
and has published " Poems," 1894 ; " Lyrics," 
1897; "An Octave to Mary." A revised edi- 
tion of his poems is soon to appear. Father 
Tabb's lyrics are marked by exquisite beauty, 
point, and finish, and have won him . deserved 
reputation. 

TAPPAN, "William Bingham, b. Beverly, 
Mass., 1794 ; d. West Needham, Mass., 1849. 
Was engaged for a large part of his life as a 
general agent of the American Sunday School 
thiion in Cincinnati and Boston. Several vol- 
umes of his ijoems were published, largely de- 
votional in character. 

TASSIKT, Algernon, Harvard University, 
Class of 1892. 

TATNALL, Frances Dorr (Swift), b. 
Newark, N. J., 187-. Since 1889 she has been 
a resident of Wilmington. Del., where she was 
married, in 1897, to H. L. Tatnall, Jr. Her 
song " Art Thou the Same " was set to music 
by her mother. 

TAYLOR, Bayard, b. Kennett Square, 
Penn., 11 Jan.,_ 1825 ; d. Berlin, Germany, 19 
Dec, 1878. It is impossible to give an adequate 
account in condensed form of this nomadic and 
eventful life, with its constantly shifting back- 
ground. Reared in a little Quaker town, his 
two great ambitions as a child, both destined 
to be realized, were to become a poet and 
to travel. He was seven years old when he 
wrote his first verse, and the first published 
poem appeared in the " Saturday Evening 
Post," 1841, a "Soliloquy of a Young Poet." 
" Ximen ; or the Battle of the Sierra Morena, 
and Other Poems, by James Bayard Taylor," 
appeared in 1844. The restless desire for travel 
overcame him in this year, and he went to 
Europe, where he tramped about for nearly two 
years on foot and in the face of great privation. 
He afterwards published "Views Afoot; or 
Europe seen with Knapsack and Staff," which 
brought him ample reward for his endurance. 
In 1848 he became chief of the literary depart- 
ment of the New York " Tribune." His repu- 
tation began, and increased, and he found 
many friends and plenty to do. His vivacity 
and humor as well as his genius won the public 
heart. In 1849 he sailed to California, where 
he spent five months, sharing the hardships of 
the gold-diggers. The record of his journey 
appeared under the title "Eldorado," etc. In 



July he read " The American Legend " be- 
fore the Phi Beta Kappa Society at Cambridge, 
where it was received with marked favor. In 
October he married Miss Mary Agnew, whom 
he had loved since childhood. She was incur- 
ably ill, and died two months after their mar- 
riage. He sailed for Europe in 1851, and 
shortly after his departure "A Book of Ro- 
mances, Lyrics, and Songs" was published. 
He journeyed into the East, and his letters to 
the " Tribune " brought fame to him at home. 
During his life he published many books of 
travel, and was in constant demand in the 
lecture halls. In 1856 he broke down from 
overwork, and in July sailed again for Europe 
with his brother and sisters. He was every- 
where received with distinction, but especially 
in Germany. Here he met Miss Marie Hansen, 
daughter of the astronomer, Prof. Hansen, 
and they were married in Gotha, 1857. In 1859 
he was able to establish his well-known home, 
" Cedarcroft," in a broad-acred tract within his 
native town. But "his life was a series of long 
travellings and trips abroad, letters and other 
contributions to the press, and innumerable 
lecture tours. The amount of work that he 
produced, in spite of this constant change and 
activity, seems almost incredible, but much of 
his prose was done with facile speed. His 
novels and poetry, however, were the result of 
careful and critical labor. His position in the 
literary world was enviable, and his friends 
were the most cultured men the country has 
produced. In 1862 he became secretary to the 
legation in Russia.' The year following he pub- 
lished a novel, " Hannah Thurston," which was 
followed by "John Godfrey's Fortunes," 1864, 
and "The Story of Kennett," 1866. In 1870 
his translation of Goethe's "Faust" appeared, 
and nearly the entire first edition was sold in 
one day. His other poetical work includes 
" Rhymes of Travel, Ballads, and Poems," 
1848; "Poems of the Orient," 1854; "Poems 
of Bayard Taylor," 1864; "Poems," 1865; 
" Picture of St. John," 1866 ; " The Masque of 
the Gods," 1872 ; " Lars, a Pastoral of Nor- 
way," 1873 ; " The Prophet," 1874 ; "Prince 
Deukalion,"*1878. In 1878 he went to Germany 
as United States minister, eagerly intending, 
also, to complete his researches for a " Ijife of 
Goethe," which he had long projected, and was 
above all others fitted to Avrite. But he soon 
fell ill, and suffered great pain, which he bore 
with courage for many days until his death. 
His widow has devoted herself to the re-editing 
of his "Works," and also wrote with H. E. 
Scudder his " Life and Letters," 1884. For an 
account of Taylor and his time, cp. " Poets of 
America," chap. xi. [b. d. l.] 

TAYLOK, Charles Edward, Trinity Col- 
lege, Class of 1892. 

TAYLOR, Joseph Russell, educator, b. 
Circleville, 0., 1868. His poems have not yet 
been collected. 

THAXTER, Mrs. Celia (Laighton), b. 
Portsmouth, N. H,, 1836 ; d. Appledore Island, 



826 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



N. H., 29 June, 1894. Her father was keeper of 
the lighthouse on the Isles of Shoals, where much 
of her life was spent, both before and after her 
marriage to Levi Lincoln Thaxter, the Brown- 
ing scholar. Her works include "Among 
the Isles of Shoals," 1873, papers published in 
"The Atlantic Monthly;" "Poems," 1874, 
with later enlarged editions; "Drift -Weed," 
1878; "Poems for Children," 1883; "The 
Cruise of the Mystery, and Other Poems," 
1886; "The Yule Log," 1889; "An Island 
Garden," 1894 ; "Letters," and "Stories and 
Poems for Children," 1895. Mrs. Thaxter was 
something of an artist, and chiefly illustrated 
her own books in water-color for friends and 
collectors. 

THAYER, Stephen Henry, b. New Ips- 
. wich, N. H., Dec, 1839. He attended Appleton 
Academy, N. H., and after removinghto Tarry- 
town, N. Y., became a banker in New York 
City. He has published " Songs of Sleepy 
HoUow," 1886, and is a frequent contributor of 
verse and critical essays to the current press. 

THAYER, "William Roscoe, historian, b. 
Boston, Mass., 1859. He graduated at Harvard 
University, and was for several years instructor 
there in English. Editor of " The Harvard 
Graduates' Magazine " since its foundation, in 
1892. His volumes of verse include " The 
Confession of Hermes, and Other Poems," 
1884; "Hesper," an American drama, 1888 ; 
" Poems, New and Old," 1894. Mr._ Thayer 
has made modern Italy the field of his impor- 
tant historical works and studies. 

THOMAS, Charles Edward, Yale Univer- 
sity, Class of 1897. 

THOMAS, Edith Matilda, b. Chatham, 
0., 12 Aug. ,1854. She had written but little 
for publication when in 1881 she naet Mrs. 
Helen Jackson. The latter showed a keen in- 
terest in Miss Thomas's poetical work, and 
encouraged her to write for the public. Her 
poems, by turns strong and delicate, and always 
exqiiisitely finished, at once came into favor. 
As a prose writer, her sketches of nature, bird 
life, etc., have been of high order, and touched 
with a quality all her own, while other essays 
reveal the sympathy for the antique, — the 
classicism that has so refined and chastened the 
beauty of her verse. Her place is secure among 
the truest living poets of our English tongue. 
Since 1888 she has lived in New York City. 
Among her best-known volumes in prose are 
" The Bound Year," 1886 ; " Children of the 
Seasons " series, 1888 ; " Babes of the Year," 
1888 ; " Babes of the Nation," 1889 ; " Heaven 
and Earth," 1889. Her poems are contained 
chiefly in "A New Year's Mask," 1885; 
"Lyrics and Sonnets," 1887; "The Inverted 
Torch," 1890; "Fair Shadow Land," 1893; 
"In Sunshine Land," 1894; "In the Young 
World," 1895 ; " A Winter Swallow, and other 
Verse," 1896. 

THOMAS, Frederick "William, lawyer and 
journalist, b. Providence, R. I,, 1808 ; d. Wash- 



ington, D. C, 1866. He grew up in Charleston, 
S. C, and removed to Cincinnati, 0., where he 
published " The Emigrant, " poem, 1833 ; the 
novels, " Clinton Bradshaw," 1835 ; "East and 
West," 1836 ; " Howard Pinckney," 1840 ; " The 
Beechen Tree, and Other Poems," 1840 ; 
"Sketches of Character," 1849 ; "John Ran- 
dolph of Roanoke," 1853. 

THOMPSOM", James Maurice, b. Fair- 
field, Ind., 9 Sept., 1844. His early life was 
passed in Kentucky and Georgia. He served 
in the Confederate army, and after the war 
practised law at Crawfordsville, Ind. From 
1885 to 1889 he was state geologist of Indiana. 
In 1890 he joined the literary staff of the N. Y. 
" Independent." Among his writings are 
" Hoosier Mosaics," 1875; "A Tallahassee 
Girl," novel, 1882; "Songs of Fair Weather," 
1883; "Byways and Bird-notes," 1885 : "Syl- 
van Secrets in Bird-Songs and Brooks," 1887 ; 
" The Story of Louisiana," 1888 ; " Poems,' 
1892; "The Ocala Boy," 1895; "Lincoln's 
Grave," poem. Mr. Thompson stood at the 
head of our poetic celebrants of forest archery, 
fishing, and other outdoor sports. His critical 
writings exhibit independence and a sense of 
what should characterize American literature. 
D. Crawfordsville, Ind., 15 Feb., 1901. 

THOMPSON, John Randolph, journalist, 
b. Richmond, Va., 23 Oct., 1823 ; d. New York, 
N. _Y., 30 April, 1873. He graduated at the 
University of Virginia, and studied for the law. 
In 1847 he assiimed the editorship of the 
"Southern Literary Messenger," which he 
held until 1859, during which period he made 
this magazine a notable success, and promoted 
the interests of literature in the South. In 
the last years of his life he was literary editor 
of the New York "Evening Post." He con- 
tributed much verse to American and English 
periodicals, including some poptdar lyrics, but 
his poems have not been issued in book-form. 

THOMPSON, Vance, b. 1862, of English 
parentage. After a boyhood in Pittsburgh, 
Penn., he graduated at Princeton and studied at 
German universities. Has since resided chiefly 
in New York, engaged as a journalist and play- . 
Wright. Founded and edited " M'Ue New 
York, ' ' an illustrated town-f ortnightly . Among 
his plays are " In Old Japan ■ " ' The Dresden 
Shepherdess;" "Floriane's Dream." Author 
of "Songs and Symbols," 1900; "French Por- 
traits : Being Appreciations of the Writers of 
Young France," 1900. 

THOMPSON, 'Will Henry, lawyer, b. 
Calhoun, Gordon Co., Ga., 1848. A brother of 
Maurice Thompson, and his comrade in the 
sports of outdoor life. Served in Confederate 
army through the war. Removed to Crawfords-. 
ville, Ind., in 1868, and later established there 
a law partnership with his brother. Became a 
resident of Seattle, Wash., in 1889. Noted as 
an orator, and the author of various poems, 
among which is a strong ballad, " The High 
Tide at Gettysburg." 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



827 



THOKEAU, Henry David, noneonformer 
and naturalist, b. Concord, Mass., 12 July, 
1817 ; d. there, 6 May, 1802. Graduated at 
Harvard, 1837. He had no settled occupation, 
but did just enough teaching-, lecturing, land- 
surveying, farming, and pencil-making to secure 
the necessities of life, fie disliked society, and 
lived for more than two years in a hut built 
with his own hands, in 1845, near Walden Pond, 
on the property of his fellow-philosopher Emer- 
son. In 1819 he pubUshed " A Week on the 
Concord and Merrimack Rivers," describing a 
few days spent with his brother in boating and 
camping out, ten years before. " Walden, or 
Life in the Woods," followed in 1854, and 
" Echoes of Harper's Ferry " in 1860. He was 
imprisoned for refusing to pay taxes to a State 
that did not condemn slavery. He observed 
nature closely, studied animals minutjly, and 
struck a transcendental note in his poetry. 
He was a frequent contributor to " The Dial," 
"The Atlantic Monthly,'' the New York 
"Tribune," and other periodicals. His post- 
humous works were " Excursions in Field 
and Forest," with a memoir by Emerson, 1863 : 
" The Maine Woods," 1864; ''Cape Cod,'' 
" Letters to Various Persons," edited by Emer- 
son, 1865; "A Yankee in Canada," 1866; 
" Early Spring in Massachusetts," 1881 ; 
"Summer," 1884; "Winter," 1888; "Au- 
tumn," 1892 ; " Works," ten vols., " Familiar 
Letters," 1894; "Poems of Nature," 1895. 
They were compiled for the most part from his 
diary, begun in 1835 and numbering 30 vols. 

TICKNOK, Francis Orrery, physician, b. 
Baldwin Co., Ga.,1822 ; d. near Columbus, Ga., 
1874. He resided near Columbus, where he 
practised his profession, and is remembered for 
several favorite poems of the Civil War. _ His 
" Poems," 1879, were edited by Paul Hamilton 
Hayne. 

TILLEY, Lucy Evangeline, b. Chatham, 
0., 1859; d. Medina, 0., 1890. She removed 
to Medina early in life. Many of her poems 
appeared in magazines and weekly publications. 
They were collected in two volumes, " Little 
Rhymes in Brown," 1886 ; and " Verses," 1892. 

TILTON, Theodore, journalist and orator, 
b. New York, N. Y., 1835. Graduated at the 
College of New York. After fifteen years of 
editorial work on "The Independent," he 
founded and edited " The Golden Age." Has 
lived abroad since 1883, and makes his home in 
Paris. His works include " The Sexton's Tale, 
and Other Poems," 1867; "Tempest Tossed," 
story, 1873; " Swabian Stories," 1882. Two 
volumes, " The Chameleon's Dish," 1893, and 
" Heart's Ease," 1894, both published in Lon- 
don, contain his revised complete poetical works, 

TIMKOD, Henry, b. Charleston, S. C, 1829 ; 
d. Columbia, S. C, 1867. Son of the book- 
binder, William Henry Timrod, who published 
a volume of verse. Slender means prevented 
the son from taking the full course at the Uni- 
versity of Georgia, and he became a tutor in 



the family of a CaroUna planter. During the 
Civil War he was a correspondent of the Charles- 
ton " Mercury," and assistant editor of the 
Columbia " South CaroHnian." The death of 
a favorite child and the destruction wrought 
by Sherman's troops in Columbia broke up his 
little home, and after a severe struggle with 
poverty he fell a prey to disease. His poems, 
having the misfortune to appear in 1860, had 
attracted less attention than they deserved ; 
but in 1873 they were republished, with a 
sketch of the author by Paul H. Hayne, and a 
revised edition has appeared, 1899. 

TOOKER, Lewis Frank, b. Port Jefferson, 
L. I., 1855. A graduate of Yale,1877, and long 
in the employ of the Century Company, New 
York. His poems have appeared in maga- 
zines, but are not yet collected. A ballad more 
effective, in diction, structure, and dramatic 
power, than "The Sea-Fight " will be hard to 
find in recent literature, 

TOKKENCE, Frederic Ridgely, libra- 
rian, b. Xenia, 0.,_1875. Educated at Miami 
and Princeton universities. His initial vol- 
ume, " The House of a Hundred Lights," 
•written after reading couplets from Bidpai, was 
published early in 1900, 

TO"W]SrSEMT), George Alfred, journalist, 
b. Georgetown, Del., 30 Jan., 1841. He was a 
New York "World" and "Herald" corre- 
spondent during the Civil War, and in 1866 a 
correspondent in the Austro-Prussian War, and 
throughout his subsequent life has been a 
breezy and picturesque writer, chiefiy from 
Washington, for various journals. Among his 
publications are " Campaigns of a Non-Com- 
batant,"_1865; "Poems," 1870; "Washing- 
ton Outside and Inside," 1871 ; "Tales of the 
Chesapeake," 1880; "The Entailed Hat," 
novel, 1884 ; also lives of Garibaldi, Lincoln, 
and Levi P. Morton. Mr. Townsend's coun- 
try home is on South Mountain, Md., where 
through his exertions a stately mural monu- 
ment has been erected in memory of the Army 
Correspondents of the Civil War. An elegant 
" limited edition " of his poems was issued by 
subscription in 1898, 

TO^WNSEND, Mary Ashley (Van Voor- 
his), •' Xariffa," b. Lyons, N. Y., 1832. After 
her marriage to Gideon Townsend she lived in 
New Orleans, La. She was chosen poet of the 
New Orleans exposition of 1884. Her Morks in- 
clude " The Brother Clerks," 1859 ; " Poems," 
1870; "The Captain's Story," 1874; " Xariffa's 
Poems," 1881; "Down the Bayou, and Other 
Poems," 1882 ; " DistafP and Spindle," sonnets, 
1895. D, Galveston, Texas, 1901, 

TRASK, Kate (Wichols), — See Katrina 
Trask. 

TRASK, Katrina (Kate Nichols Trask), 
b. Brooklyn, N. Y., 18 — . She was married to 
Spencer Trask, the banker, in 1874. Her 
"Under King Constantine," 1893, legends and 
poems, composed in finished blank verse, has 



828 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



passed through several editions. Mrs. Trask 
has also issued " Sonnets and Lyrics," 1894. 

TRAUBBL, Horace Logo, h. Camden, 
N. J., 1858. Editorially connected with the Bos- 
ton " Commonwealth " and Chicago "Unity," 
1882-88. Established " The Conservator " at 
Camden, 1888, of which journal he has always 
been proprietor and editor. He was devoted 
to the personal welfare of Walt Whitman, as- 
sisted him in preparing the final editions of his 
prose and verse, and was one of his literary ex- 
ecutors. Editor of " Camden's Compliment to 
Walt Whitman," 1889; "Good-bye and Hail, 
Walt Whitman," 1892 ; "In Re Walt Whit- 
man," with R. M. Bucke and T. B. Harned, 
1893. 

TKOUBETSKOY, Princess Amelia 
(Kives), b. Richmond, Va., 1863. The grand- 
daughter of Senator WiUiam C. Rives, of Vir- 
ginia, and the daughter of Alfred L. Rives, 
engineer, of Castle Hill, Cobham, Va. She 
received her education from private instructors. 
Was first married to John Armstrong Chanler, 
of New York. She was afterwards married to 
Prince Pierre Troubetskoy, of Russia, and has 
since resided chiefly at Castle Hill. The suc- 
cess of " A Brother to Dragons, and Other Old- 
Time Tales," 1888, was repeated by "The 
Quick or the Dead ? " in the same year. Among 
her other works of fiction are " Virginia of 
Virginia," " According to St. John," and 
"Barbara Dering." In verse, she is the au- 
thor of " Herod and Mariamne : a Drama," 
1889 ; and of many uncollected poems. 

TKCWBRIDGE, John Townsend, b. Og- 
den, N. Y., 18 Sept., 1827. He was born on a 
farm, and received his education in the com- 
mon schools, supplemented by a term at a clas- 
sical school and by private studies. In 1847 he 
began writing for the press, having come to 
New York, and soon afterwards he removed to 
Boston, in the vicinity of which he subsequently 
resided, engaged in editorial and literary work. 
He became a poptilar writer of juvenile fiction, 
of which he published many volumes, and was 
managing editor of " Our Young Folks " from 
1870 to 1873. His books of verse include " The 
Vagabonds, and Other Poems," 1869; "The 
Emigrant's Story," 1875; "A Home Idyl," 
1881 ; and " The Lost Earl," 1888. 

TKTJMBULL, Annie Eliot, b. Hartford, 
Conn., 1857. Graduated at the High School, 
Hartford, in which city she has since resided. — 
"An Hour's Promise," 1889 ; "White Birches," 
1893 ; " A Masque of Culture," play, 1893 ; "A 
Christmas Accident, and Other Stories," 1897 ; 
"Mistress Content Cradoek," 1899. 

TUCKER, St. George, jurist, b. Bermuda, 
1752; d. Warminster, Va., 1828. Graduated 
from William and Mary College, 1772 ; lieu- 
tenant - colonel in the Revolutionary War ; 
judge of the Court of Appeals, 1804-11. Au- 
thor of numerous law treatises, ' ' The Proba- 
tionary Odes of Jonathan Pindar, Esq.," 1^96 ; 
and of occasional poems. "7 



TUCKERMAN", Henry Tlieodore, essay- 
ist, b. Boston, Mass.,_ 1813 ; d. New York, 1871. 
He travelled m^uch in Europe, and after 1845 
lived in New York. Among his works are 
"Italian Sketch -Book," 1835; "Isabel, or 
Sicily," 1839 ; " Thoughts on the Poets," 1846 ; 
" Artist Life," 1847 ; " Characteristics of Lit- 
erature," 1849-51; "The Optimist," 1850; 
."Poems," 1851; "Essays," 1857; "Art in 
America," 1858 ; " America and her Commen- 
tators," 1864; " Maga Papers about Paris," 
1867; "Book of the Artists," 1867; "The 
Collector, Essays," 1868 ; " Life of John Pen- 
dleton Kennedy," 1871. 

UNDERWOOD, Wilbur, b. Washington, 
D. C, 1876. Educated in that city, which is 
his residence. Author of occasional poems and ' 
of "The Burden of the Desert," 1896. 

URMY, Clarence (Thomas), organist, b. 
San Francisco, Cal., 1858. His productions in 
book-form are "A Rosary of Rhyme," 1884; 
" A Vintage of Verse," 1897. 

VALENTINE, Edward Abram Ufflng- 
ton, b. Bellefonte, Penn., 1870. He was edu- 
cated at Hayerford College, and afterwards 
studied law in the Old Maryland University. 
He gave up the law for journalism and became 
literary editor of the Baltimore " Evening 
News." 

"VANDEGRIPT, Margaret." — See 

Margaret Thomson Janvier. 

VAN DYKE, Henry, D. D., LL. D., b. 

Germantown, Penn., 1852. Graduated at 
Princeton, 1873 ; Princeton Theo. Sem., 1877 ; 
and Berlin University, 1879. Became pastor 
of the United Cong. Church, Newport, R. I. 
In 1882 was called to the pastorate of the 
"Brick Presbyterian Church" of New York. 
In 1899, he accepted the professorship of Eng- 
lish literature at Princeton. He delivered the 
memorial ode on the occasion of the one hun- 
dred and fiftieth anniversary of his Alma Ma- 
ter. The wide range of Dr. Van Dyke's equip- 
ment is shown by the record of his varied and 
felicitously written work. — "The Reality of 
Religion," 1884 ; " The Story of the Psalms," 
1887 ; " The Poetry of Tennyson," 1890, en- 
larged edition, 1895; " Straight Sermons to 
Young Men," 1893; "Little Rivers," 1895; 
"The Gospel for an Age of Doubt," 1896; 
"The Builders, and Other Poems," 1897; 
" The Gospel for a World of Sin," 1899 ; " The 
Toiling of Felix, and Other Poems," 1899; 
"Fisherman's Luck, and Other Uncertain 
Things," 1899. 

VAN RENSSELAER, Peyton, b. New 
York, N. Y,, 1863. A resident of Stock- 
bridge, Mass. His song "At Twilight" has 
been set to music by Ethelbert Nevin. 

VAN VORST, Marie, b. New York, N. Y., 
187-. A daughter of the late Hooper C. Van 
Vorst, first president of the Holland Society, 
and long a justice of the Supreme Court of 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



829 



New York. For some years past she has been 
active with her pen, writing verse, children's 
stories, and special articles. Now a resident of 
Paris. 

" VARLEY, John Philip," — See Langdon 
Elwyn Mitchell. 

VENABLE, "William Henry, h. near 
Waynesville, 0., 1836. He was president of 
Chickering Institute, Cincinnati, 1881-86, and 
has published " June on the Miami, and Other 
Poems," 1871 ; " Melodies of the Heart," 1885 ; 
"The Last Flight," 1893; "Biography of 
William D. Gallagher," 1888; "Footprints of 
the Pioneers in the Ohio Valley ; " " The Begin- 
nings of Literary Culture in the Ohio Valley." 
He edited ' ' Dramatic Scenes from the Best 
Authors," 1874. 

VERY, Jones, transcendentalist, b. Salem, 
Mass., 28 Aug., 1813; d. there, 8 May, 1880. 
He made voyages with his father, a cultivated 
sea-captain, and had schooling in Salem and 
New Orleans. A graduate of Harvard in 1836, 
he taught Greek there for two years. His first 
volume of essays and poems appeared in 1839. 
In 1843 the Cambridge Association licensed him 
to preach, but he was never ordained. He was 
the intimate friend of Emerson and Channing, 
and a frequent contributor to " The Christian 
Register " and other Unitarian journals. His 
friend James Freeman Clarke edited a complete 

fosthumous edition of his poems and essays. 
n 1883 Very's "Poems" were reedited by 
William P. Andrews, with a memoir. The 
sonnet, somewhat on the Shakesperean model, 
was the form of expression most natural to 
him. 

WALLACE, Lewis, soldier, lawyer, and 
novelist, b. Brookville, Ind., 10 Apr., 1827. 
Participated in the Mexican and Civil wars, 
gaining the rank of general in the latter. A 
resident of Crawfordsville, Ind., where he has 
practised law for many years. Gen. Wallace 
was U. S. minister to Turkey, 1881-85. Author 
of " The Fair God," 1873 ; " Ben Hur," 1880 ; 
" The Prince of India," 1893. 

"WARD, Elizabeth Stuart (Phelps), b. 
Andover, Mass., 1844. Daughter of Prof. 
Austin Phelps and of Elizabeth (Stuart) 
Phelps, also an author. Miss Phelps was 
married, 1888, to Rev. Herbert D. Ward, of 
New York City, a man of letters (son of Dr. 
W. Hayes Ward), and has since lived in New- 
ton, Mass. Among her many works are 
"Ellen's Idol," 1864; "The Gates Ajar," 
1868, which met with success, and has been 
followed by " Beyond the Gates." 1883 ; " The 
Gates Between," 1887; the "Trotty" and 
"Gipsy" series for children; "Poetic Stud- 
ies," poems, 1875 ; " The Story of Avis," 1877 ; 
"Songs of the Silent World," 1885, and "The 
Master of the Magicians," with her husband, 
1890 ; " The Story of Jesus Christ," 1897. 

WARD, Samuel, b. New York, N. Y., 
1813; d. Pegli, Italy, 1884. Graduated at 



Columbia, and about 1862 removed to Wash- 
ington. In 1871 he published "Lyrical Recre- 
ations." He was a brother of Julia Ward 
Howe ; by turns a banker, diplomat, classicist, 
and expert in American Indian .dialects. To 
the arts of a select bon vivant and man of the 
world, he diverted talents that might have 
gained him more than a passing distinction. 
His personal charm 'was a rare and lovable 
endowment. 

WARD, William Hayes, archaeologist, b. 
Abington, Mass., 1835. Graduated at Amherst, 
1856, and at Andover, 1859. He was professor 
of Latin at Ripon College, Wis., 1860-68, and 
became superintending editor of the New York 
"Independent," 1870, in which position he has 
since remained. He conducted the Wolfe ex- 
pedition to Babylonia, 1884-85, and wrote a 
pamphlet on the subject. Author of "Notes 
on Oriental Antiquities," and numerous archae- 
ological articles in the " Bibliotheea Sacra " 
and elsewhere. 

W^ARE, Eugene Fitch, "IronquUl," 
lawyer, b. Hartford, Conn., 1841. Served dur- 
ing the Civil War, and afterwards was captain 
of cavalry and aid to Maj.-Gen. G. M. Dodge. 
He has twice been elected to the Kansas Senate. 
His quaint "Rhymes of Ironquill " appeared 
in 1885. An enlarged edition was published in 
1899. 

WARNER, Charles Dudley, man of let- 
ters, b. Pfeiinfield, Mass., 12 Sept., 1829; d. 
Hartford, Conn., 20 Oct., 1900. This honored 
author, editor, and social scientist occasionallj' 
wrote verse, of which the sonnet .upon an Ori- 
ental theme, p. 308, is an interesting example. 

WATSON, Edward Willard, physician, 
b. Newport, R. I., 1843 ; now a resident of 
Philadelphia, Penn. Educated at the Univer- 
sity of Pennsylvania and the University Med- 
ical School. Besides contributing to medical 
literature, Dr. Watson has published two vol- 
umes of verse : " To-day and Yesterday," 1895 ; 
" Songs of Flying Hours," 1897. 

WAYLAND, John Elton, "Idas," law- 
yer, b. Waterbury, Conn., 1860. Graduated 
at Yale, 1883, and at the Columbia Law School, 
1895. He was admitted to the New York bar 
the same year, and has since practised in that 
city. His poem " An Epilogue at Wallaek's " 
appeared in the "Yale Courant " for 1882, and. 
in W. Winter's "John Gilbert," published by 
the Dunlap Society, 1890. 

WEBB, Charles Henry, " John Paul," 
b. Rouse's Point, N. Y., 1834. Went to sea in 
boyhood. For three years was on the staff of 
the N. Y. " Times," contributing notable book 
reviews and special articles. His " John Paul " 
letters were long a feature of the "Tribune." 
Founded " The Californian." He, like Bret 
Harte, was a pioneer in the literature of the 
Pacific Slope ; and, beginning as a humorist, 
has produced lyrics of a true poetic vein. Au- 
thor of " John Paul's Book," 1874 ; " Parodies, 



830 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



Prose and Verse," 1876; "Vagrom Verse," 
1889; "With Lead and Line along Varying 
Shores," 1901 ; and several burlesque plays. 

WEBSTER, Daniel, statesman, b. Salis- 
bury (now Franklin), N. H., 18 Jan. 1782 ; d. 
Marshfield, Mass., 24 Oct., 1852. U. S. repre- 
sentative, 1813-17, and 1823-27. U. S. senator 
from Mass., with the exception of three years 
as secretary of state, 1827-50. A few poems, 
including " The Memory of the Heart," pub- 
lished posthumously in his " Private Corre- 
spondence," 1856, are the only examples of 
verse extant from the pen of Daniel Webster. 

WEEDEN, Howard, b. Huntsville, Ala., 
18 — , of Virginia and Georgia parentage. Her 
father and grandfather were prosperous cotton 
planters; and from her mother's family, of 
Scottish ancestry. Miss Weeden inherited a 
taste for letters. — " Bandanna Ballads," 1899. 

WEEKS, Robert KeUey, b. New York, 
N. Y., 1840; d. there, 1876. A graduate of 
Yale and member of the New York bar, who 
gave up law for literature, and published 
" Poems," 1866 ; " Episodes and Lyric Pieces," 
1870. 

WELBY, AmeUa B. CCoppuck), b. St. 
Michael's, Md., 1819; d. Louisville, Ky., 1852, 
Her family removed to Louisville, where she 
was married in 1838 to George B. Welby, of that 
city. "Poems by Amelia" was published 
in 1844. An illustrated edition appeared in 
1850. 

WHARTON, Edith (Jones), b. New York, 
N. Y., 186-. Of Revolutionary ancestry. 
Daughter of George Frederic Jones, of N. Y., 
and the wife of Edward Wharton. Author, 
with Ogden Codman, Jr., of " The Decoration 
of Houses ; " " The Greater Inclination," short 
stories, 1899 ; " The Touchstone," 1900. 

WHICHER, George Meason, educator, b. 
Muscatine, Iowa, 1860. Educated at Iowa 
College. Professor of classical languages at the 
Normal College, city of New York. Editor of 
Greek and Latin text-books, and a contributor 
of essays and verse to the periodicals. 

WHITE, Edward Lucas, b. Bergen, N. J., 
1865. A resident of Baltimore, Md., where he 
is engaged in teaching Latin and Greek. His 

, poems, hitherto uncollected, may soon be pub- 

Ilished in book-form. 

WHITE, Eugene Richard, b. BufFalo, 
N. Y., 1872. Editor of the Niagara Falls " Ga- 
\zette." He graduated at Williams in 1894. In 
1898 his volume " Songs of Good Fighting " was 
published. 

WHITING, Charles Gooarich, critic of 
letters and art, _b. St. Albans, Vt., 1842. He 
grew up in Springfield, Mass., and has been 
connected with " The Republican " of that city 
since 1866, becoming in 1874 its literary editor, 
and also paying constant and influential atten- 
tion to the progress of American art. In 1885 



he wrote the poem, for the unveiling of the 
soldiers' monument at Springfield. He haa 
published " The Saunterer,"' prose and vei-se, 
1886 ; " Essays on Nature." 

WHITING, lalian, journalist, b. Niagara 
Falls, N. Y., 185-. She has been successful in 
editorial work and as a newspaper correspond- 
ent, and was literary editor of the Boston 
" Traveller," 1883-90. Her permanent resi- 
dence is Boston. Author of " The World 
Beautiful," 1st, 2d, 3d, series, essays, 1894- 
98 ; "After Her Death: the Story of a Sum- 
mer," 1897; "From Dreamland Sent," poems, 
1899 ; " Kate Field: a Record," 1899. 

WHITMAN, Sarah Helen (Power), b. 
Providence, R. I., 1803; d. 1878. Widowed, 
1833 ; betrothed to Poe, 1848. The engage- 
ment was broken, but she defended him in her 
monograph, "Edgar A. Poe and His Critics," 
1860. Her published works include "Fairy 
Ballads," written with her sister, Anna M. 
Power; "Hours of Life and Other Poems," 
1853; and "Poems," posthumous, 1878. 

WHITMAN, Walt (originally "Walter), 
b. West Hills, Huntington township, Suffolk 
Co., L. I., N. Y., 31 May, 1819 ; d. Camden, 
N. J., 26 March, 1892. He was descended from 
Connecticut, English, and Long Island Dutch 
forbears. His father left the ancestral farm 
for Brooklyn, 1823, where Walt lived until 
1836, studying in the public schools and learn- 
ing the printer's trade. He taught school, and 
edited a paper at Huntington for about a year in 
1839. Until 1861 he was occupied as a printer, 
editor, and miscellaneous writer. Whitman 
had always devoted as much time as possible to 
the study of nature on the Long Island beaches, 
and to observing bhe throngs of people at the 
Brooklyn ferries and in the New York streets, 
when, in 1853, he began to experiment in the 
direction of the new forms of poetry and phi- 
losophy developed in " Leaves of Grass," 1855. 
His previous work had been altogether conven- 
tional. At the same time he assumed the dress 
of a workingman, and became conspicuous as 
an associate of the common people. His book 
created much discussion. Enlarged editions ap- 
peared in 1856 and 1861, and Whitman's verse 
became a "cult." It was in 1862 that he be-> 
gan his three years' service as a volunteer army 
nurse in the hospitals about Washington. This 
experience is set forth in " Memoranda during 
the War," 1875. His health failing, he secured 
a place in the Interior Department, 1865, from 
which he was dismissed by the secretary, who 
had read and disapproved of passages in 
" Leaves of Grass." This incident called out 
the pamphlet by W. D. O'Connor, entitled the 
" Good Gray Poet : A Vindication," from which 
Whitman's sobriquet originated. He soon ob- 
tained another clerkship in the attorney-gen- 
eral's office, which he held until his final break- 
down from paralysis in 1873. He resided with 
his brother at Camden until 1883, when his own 
resources and the assistance of friends enabled 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



him to secure the hmne in Mickle Street, Cam- 
den, yome of his uest verse is contained in 
" Walt Whitman's Drum-Taps," 18(55-66, in- 
spired by the war and by President Lincoln's 
assassination. A selected edition of his 
" Poems," edited by W. M. Rossetti, and pub- 
lished in England, 1868, was the beginning of 
his fame in that country, and brought him 
letters from Tennyson and others. Enlarged 
editions of "Leaves of Grass" appeared in 
1867, 1871, 1872. His prose volume, " Demo- 
cratic Vistas," was published, 1871, and in this 
he took occasion to reply to his critics. In 
1876, the "Centennial" edition of his works 
was issued by the author in two volumes. 
Whitman lectured in New York, Boston, and 
other cities, on the anniversary of Lincoln's 
death. A definitive edition of ' ' Leaves of Grass " 
appeared in Boston, 1882, but was suppressed 
through the action of the attorney-general of 
Massachusetts, and^subsequently issued in Phila- 
delphia. " Specimen Days and Collect," 1883, 
was a collection of his prose works. Volumes 
supplementary to " Leaves of Grass " are " No- 
vember Boughs," 1888, and "Good Bye, My 
Fancy," 1891. The final edition, "Leaves of 
Grass," 1892, includes these. Whitman lies in 
a massive tomb in Harleigh Cemetery, Camden, 
which he designed and built shortly before his 
death. Cp. "Poets of America," chap. x. 

[A. S.] 

^WHITNEY, Hattie, b. St. Louis, Mo., 
18 — . Of New England descent. Her early 
life was passed in the country. Her present 
residence is in St. Louis. She has written much 
verse and fiction for literary publications. 

WHITlsTEY, Helen (Hay). — See HeleH 
Hay. 

"WHITNEY, Joseph Ernest, educator, b. 
Cornwall, Conn., 1858 ; d. Colorado Springs, 
Col., 1893. Graduated at Yale, where he was 
appointed instructor in English, 1884, resigning 
on account of ill-health, 1 888. Joint editor with 
Henry S. Durand of " Elm Leaves," a collec- 
tion of Yale verse, 1881. His miscellaneous 
writings gave evidence of his fine natural quali- 
ties, and of the high standard at which he aimed 
throughout his brief term of service. 

WHITTIER, John Greenleaf, New Eng- 
land's Quaker Poet, b. East Haverhill, Mass., 
17 Dec, 1807 ; d. Hampton Falls, N. H., 7 Sept. 
1892. Having scant schooling and few books, 
he steeped his mind in the Bible, and in the 
journals of Friends. A chance knowledge of 
Burns's poetry had a stimulating effect iipon 
his imagination. The poems of his boyhood 
were numerous, but the earliest that he saw fit 
to include in the complete and definitive edition 
of his writings (7 vols. 1888-8ft) are dated 1825. 
One of them, "The Exile's Departure," was 
sent by his sister Mary to the Newburyport 
"_ Free Press." Its editor, William Lloyd Gar- 
rison, accepted the poem, and gave its young 
author a home in his own family, enabling 
him to attend the Haverhill Academy. Here 



he paid for a winter's schooling with money 
earned by making slippers. Afterwards he 
wrote for the press, and successivelj' edited 
"The American Manufacturer," Boston; 
"The HaverhiU Gazette;" and*' The New 
England Weekly Review," Hartford, Conn. In 
1833 he published at his own expense the pam- 
phlet "Justice and Expediency," which identi- 
fied him with the anti-slavery movement. In 
1836, he became a secretary of the American 
Anti-Slavery Society, and made, with the poem 
" Mogg Megone," his first appearance in book- 
form. "Legends of New England in Prose 
and Verse," pamphlet, had appeared in 1831 ; 
"Moll Pitcher," a pamphlet, in 1832. In 1837 
the collection, ' ' Poems Written during the Pro- 
gress of the Abolition Question in the United 
States " was published without his knowledge. 
Frail health closed his service in the Massachu- 
setts legislature, and also his editorship of the 
Philadelphia ' ' Pennsylvania Freeman, ' ' 1837-4(). 
He retired to the home in Amesbury, Mass., 
whither his mother and sister had removed. 
Here and in Danvers, in the sam.e coixnty, the 
rest of his life was quietly passed. He never 
married, but found happiness in the companion- 
ship of his sister Elizabeth, who died in 1864. 
The complete edition of his works includes a 
number of her poems. Whittier wrote for Gar- 
rison's "Liberator" and for the Washington 
" National Era," where also Mrs. Stowe's 
"Uncle Tom's Cabin "first appeared. To the 
"Atlantic Monthly," established in 1857, he be- 
came a favorite contributor. " Voices of Free- 
dom," 1849, was the first comprehensive col- 
lection of his poems. It was followed by 
" Songs of Labor," 1850 ; " The Chapel of the 
Hermits," "A Sabbath Scene," 18r,3 ; "The 
Panorama," 1856; "Home Ballads," 1860; 
"In War Time," 1863; "National Lyrics," 
1865; "Snow Bound," 1866; "The Tent on 
the Beach," 1867; "Among the Hills," 1868; 
"Ballads of New England," 1869; "Miriam 
and Other Poems," 1870; "The Pennsylvania 
Pilgrim," 1872 ; " Mabel Martin," 1874 ; "Ha- 
zel Blossoms," 1875; "Centennial Hymn," 
1876; "The Vision of Echard," 1878; "The 
King's Missive," 1881; "The Bay of Seven 
Islands," 1883; "Poems of Nature," 1885; 
"St. Gregory's Guest, and Recent Poems," 
1886 ; " At Sundown," 1890, dedicated to E. C. 
Stedman, and ending with his last poem, ad- 
dressed to 0. W. Holmes. His prose works 
are "The Stranger in Lowell," 1845 ; "Super- 
naturalism in New England," 1847 ; "Leaves 
from Margaret Smith's Journal," 1849; "Old 
Portraits and Modern Sketches," 1850 ; " Liter- 
ary Recollections," 1854. He edited "John 
Woolman's Journal," 1873, and " The Letters 
of Lydia Maria Child," 1882. He compiled 
"Songs of Three Centuries," 1873; "Child- 
Life," 1871; and ".Child-Life in Prose," 1873. 
The authoritative Life of Whittier is written 
by his nephew-in-law and literary executor, 
Samuel T. Pickard, 1894. His home in Ames- 
bury, Mass., hasbeen purchased by the Whit- 
tier Home Association ; a club has been formed 



832 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



there ; the house and grounds are thrown open 
to members on special occasions ; and on the 
poet's birthday memorial ceremonies are held. 
For an extended review of Whittier's career 
and writingt, ep. "Poets of America," chap, 
iv, [l. C. b.] 

WILCOX, Ella Wheeler, b. Johnstown 
Centre, Wis., 185-. She was educated at the 
University of Wisconsin, and was married, 1884, 
to Robert M. Wilcox, of Meriden, Conn. Her 
home is in New York City. Among her writ- 
ings are "Drops of Water," temperance 
poems, 1872; "Shells," 1873 ; "Maurine, and 
Other Poems," 1882; "Poems of Passion," 
1883 ; " Mai Moul^e," story, 1885 ; " Poems of 
Pleasure," 1888 ; " Custer, and Other Poems," 
1895. 

WILDE, Richard Henry, lawyer, b. Dub- 
lin, Ireland, 1789 ; d. New Orleans, La., 1817. 
Reared in poverty, but a natural poet and 
scholar. Prepared himself for the law and rose 
by his own effort to a position of eminence in 
letters and in public life. Lived in Italy from 
1835 to 1810. Was afterward until his death a 
promi'nent lawyer in New Orleans. Author of 
fugitivt^ poems, notably "My Life is Like a 
Summer Rose." Wrote also, as a result of his 
Italian s*tudies, " Conjectures and Researches 
ConeerniiVg the Love, Madness, and Imprison- 
ment of T'orquato Tasso," 1842. 

WILKI NS, Mary Eleanor, b. Randolph, 
Mass., Jf^62. Miss Wilkins is known by her 
proiwe work rather than by her poetry, of which 
,'she has written comparatively little. Early in 
1893, "Giles Corey," a poetic drama, was pro- 
duced in Boston, under the auspices of The 
Theatre of Arts and Letters. Her well-known 
novels are charming realistic tales of New Eng- 
land, delineating the life and manners of its 
people. 

WILKINSON, William Cleaver, D. D., 
b. Westford, Vt., 1833. A Baptist clergyman, 
formerly professor in the Rochester Theological 
Seminary, and professor of poetry and criticism 
at the University of Chicago since 1892. Among 
his writings are "A Free Lance in the Field 
of Life and Letters," 1874; "Webster, an 
Ode," 1882; " Poems," 1883 ; "Edwin Arnold 
as Poetizer and Paganizer," 1884; "The Epic 
of Saul," 1891 ; "A College Greek Course in 
English," 1893 ; " The Epic of Paul," 1898. 

WILLAE.D, Emma (Hart), educator, b. 
New Berlin, Conn., 1787 ; d. Troy, N. Y., 1870. 
She conducted the Troy female seminary from 
1821 to 1838, inaugurating many reforms in the 
education of women. She was the aiithor of 
several prose works, and of " Poems," 1830, the 
latter including the well-known "Rocked in 
the Cradle of the Deep." 

WILLIAMS, Francis Howard, b. Phila- 
delphia, Penn., 1844. Connected with a trust 
company in Philadelphia, and an able contrib- 
utor to various journals. Author of " The 
Princess Elizabeth : a Ly^ic Drama," 1880 ; 



" The Higher Education," comedy, 1881^ "A 
Reformer in Ruffles," comedy, 1881 ; " Theo- 
dora : a Christmas Pastoral," 1882; "Master 
and Man," play, 1884 ; " Boscosel," short story 
in the collection, "The Septameron," 188» ; 
"Atman: the Documents in a Strange Case," 
story, 1891 ; " Pennsylvania Poets of the Pi'o- 
ven^al Period," essay, 1893 ; " The Flute 
Player, and Other Poenis," 1894. 

WILLIS, Nathaniel Parker, poet and 
essayist, b. Portland, Me., 1806; d. "Idle- 
wild," near Newburgh, N. Y., 1867. Won at 
Yale, where he was graduated, 1827, a prize for 
the best poem. His earliest verses appeared in 
the "Youth's Companion" and "Boston Re- 
corder," both founded by his father. In 1829, 
he established the "American Monthly Maga- 
zine," afterwards the "New York Mirror." 
In 1831 he visited Europe and the East, con- 
tributing letters to the "Mirror." A rebuke 
from Capt. Marrj'at in the " Metropolitan 
Magazine," for reporting private interviews, 
led to a bloodless duel. In 1839 he published 
the "Corsair," to which Thackeray contrib- 
uted. In 1846 he founded, with G. P. Morris, 
the "Home Journal," remaining associate edi- 
tor till his death, at the estate on the Hudson 
which he purchased in 1846 and named 
"Idlewild." Published "Poetical Scripture 
Sketches," 1827; "Melanie, and Other Poems." 
"Lady Jane, and Other Poems," 1844; and 
many volumes of brilliant prose sketches, let- 
ters, travels, etc. A complete edition of his 
poems appeared in 1868. Cp. "Poets of 
America," pp. 41, 42. 

WILLSON (Byron), Forceythe, b. Little 
Genesee, N. Y., 1837; d. Alfred, N.^Y., 1867. 
He Spent part of his childhood in Kentucky, 
studied at Harvard, and was on the staff of the 
Louisville "Courier." Author of "The Old 
Sergeant, and Other Poems," written during 
the Civil War and published in 1867. A 
strongly imaginative balladist, whose death 
was a loss to poetry. 

WILSON, Alexander, ornithologist, b. 
Paisley, Scotland, 1766 ; d. Philadelphia, Penn., 
1813. Emigrated to America, 17^. Followed 
his trades, — • weaving and peddling, — taught 
school, and was editor of an edition of " Rees's 
Cyelopsedia." In 1804 he began his "Ameri- 
can Ornithology;" published seven volumes, 
1808-13 ; the other two volumes being edited 
after his death by a friend. Author of " Po- 
ems," 1790 and 1791 ; " Watty and Meg," 
1792 ; " The Foresters," 1805 ; " Poems and 
Literary Prose," 1876. 

WILSON, Robert Burns, b. Washington 
Co., Penn., 1850. Early in life he became a 
resident of Frankfort, Ky. He studied paint- 
ing, and his pictures were exhibited with suc- 
cess. His verse has gained him a prominent 
position among Western poets. Besides many 
uncollected poems in the magazines, he is the 
author of ''Life and Love," 1887, and " The 
Shadows of the Trees," 1898. 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



^33 



"WINTER, William, b. Gloucester, Mass., 
15 July, 183G. He graduated at the Harvard 
Law School, and for a time studied law under 
Rufus Choate. In 1859 he removed to New 
York, and soon won respect hy the standard of 
his work for the "Saturday Press," "Vanity 
Fair," "Albion," etc. With an instinct for 
comradeship, he was the attached friend of 
George Arnold, O'Brien, and others among 
whom his lot was cast in the struggling days of 
authorship, and he survived to become their 
loyal editor and memorialist. Since 1865 he 
has been the dramatic critic of the N. Y. 
" Tribune," and in that capacity has gained 
distinction for both his journal and himself, 
ranking with his most eminent contemporaries 
here and abroad, and held in intiniacy and 
honor by the foremost actors of his time. He 
has indulged to the full his passion for the 
scenes and traditions of old England, and on 
many sentimental journeys thither, and his 
resultant books have become " little classics " 
on both sides of the Atlantic. Mr. Winter's 
home is on Staten Island, where he has asso- 
ciated his name with the Staten Island Acad- 
emy, by founding its Arthur Winter library, 
in memory of a gifted and favorite child. In 
New York he long has held the primacy as 
poet and orator of festive or ra^emorial occa- 
sions, having the stops of humor and pathos 
at full command in classical speech as well as 
in his song. Author of "The Convent, and 
Other Poems," 1854 ; " The Queen's Domain," 
poems, 1858; "My Witness," poems, 1871; 
" Thistledown," poems, 1878 ; " Poems," com- 
plete to date, 1880; "The Jeffersons," 1881; 
"Henry Irving," 1885; "The Stage-Life of 
Mary Anderson," 1886 ; "Shakespeare's Eng- 
land," 1886; "Wanderers," poems, 1888; 
" Gray Days and Gold," 1891; "Old Shrines 
and Ivy," 1892 ; " The Life and Art of Edwin 
Booth," 1894 ; " Brown Heath and Blue Bells," 
1895. He has edited " Life, Stories, and the 
Poems of John Brougham," 1881 ; the poems 
of G. Arnold and O'Brien, and various other 
works of this class, besides the " Shakespearan 
and Miscellaneous Plays of Edwin Booth," 1899. 
Cp. " Poets of America," p. 440. 

"WINTHROP, Theodore, b. New Haven, 
Conn., 1828; fell at Great Bethel, Va., 1861. 
An early and distinguished writer of the Civil 
War. He was graduated at Yale, and after 
spending two years in Europe and several in 
Panama, removed to New York City, where he 
was admitted to the bar. In 1861 he became 
General Butler's secretary, and planned with 
him the campaign that cost him his own life. 
Though he published a notable article, " The 
March of the Seventh," in the " Atlantic 
Monthly," the writings which were to preserve 
his name and fame appeared after the close of 
his sorrowfully brief career, and comprise the 
following volumes: "Cecil Dreeme," 1861; 
"John Brent," 1862; "Edwin Brothertoft," 
1862 ; "The Canoe and the Saddle," 1862; 
" Life in the Open Air, and Other Papers," 1863. 



His novels were in some degree the forerunners 
of anew departure in American fiction. 

■WOODBERRY, George Edward, poet, 
critic, and educator, b. Beverly, Mass., 12 Maj', 
1855. Was fitted for college at Phillips Acad- 
emy, Exeter, N. H., and graduated at Harvard, 
1877. He was acting professor of rhetoric, 
English literature, and history, at the State 
University of Nebraska, 1877-78, and profes- 
sor of Anglo-Saxon and rhetoric, and instruc- 
tor in composition, at the same university, 
1880-82. From 1878 to 1879 he was engaged 
on the staff of " The Nation." He resided at 
Beverly, occupied with literary work until his 
appointment, in 1891, to a professorship of Eng- 
lish literature at Columbia. Author of " His- 
tory of Wood Engraving," 1883 ; " The North 
Shore Watch : a Threnody," privately printed, 
1883 ; " Edgar Allan Poe," in " American Men 
of Letters," 1885; "The North Shore Watch, 
and Other Poems," 1890; "Studies in Letters 
and Life," essays, 1890; "Heart of Man," 
essays, 1899 ; " Wild Eden," verse, ISm ; 
" Makers of Literature," essays, 1900. Profes- 
sor Woodberry has edited "Selected Poems" 
of Aubrey de Vere, 1895 ; " The Complete 
Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley," 4 
vols., 1892; "The Works of Edgar Allan 
Poe," with Edmund C. Stedman, 10 vols., 
1894. Is editor of the "National Studies in 
American Letters " series, to which he con- 
tributes " Flowers of Essex," 1900, 

"WOODWORTH, Samuel, journalist and 
writer, b. Scituate, Mass., 13 Jan., 1785; d. 
New York, N. Y., 9 Dec, 1842. Connected with 
several papers, notably with the N. Y. "Mir- 
ror," of which he was one of the founders. 
Author of " The Champions of Freedom," 1816, 
and several operettas and dramatic pieces. A 
collection of his poems was made in 1826 under 
the patronage of De Witt Clinton, but only 
" The Old Oaken Bucket " is now remem- 
bered. 

WOOLSEY, Sarah Chauncey, " Susan 
Coolidge," b. Cleveland, 0., about 184-. 
Niece of President Woolsey of Yale College. 
Her home is in Newport, R. I. She has pub- 
lished " Old Convent School in Paris ; " " The 
New Year's Bargain," 1871 ; tbe series begin- 
ning with " What Katy Did," 1872 ; and many 
other books for young girls ; " Verses," 1880 ; 
"Ballads of Romance and History," with 
others, 1887; "A Few More Verses." She 
has edited " The Autobiography and Corre- 
spondence of Mrs. Delaney," 1879; "The 
Diary and Letters of Frances Burney," 1880, 
and has made translations from the French. 

WOOLSEY, Theodore Dwight, scholar, 
b. New York, N. Y., 1801 ; d. New Haven, 
Conn., 1889. Graduated at Yale, and studied 
for the ministry at Princeton. He was ap- 
pointed professor of Greek at Yale in 1831, and 
was president of the same institution from 1846 
to 1871. Author of numerous classical text- 



834 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



books and works on political and social science. 
" Eros, and Other Poems " was privately 
printed in 1880. 

"WOOLSON, Constance Fenimore, nov- 
elist, b. Claremont, N. H., 1840; d. Venice, 
Italy, 1894. A grand-niece of James Fenimore 
Cooper ; educated at Cleveland, O., and at a 
French school in New York City. From 1873 
to 1879 she lived chiefly in Florida. The last 
years of her life were passed in Italy. In 1870 
she began to contribute stories to " Harper's 
Monthly," and most of her prose and verse ap- 
peared in that magazine. Author of "The 
Old Stone House," 1873 ; " Castle Nowhere," 
"Lake-Country Sketches," 1875; "Anne," 
1882 ; " East Angels," 1886 ; " Jupiter Lights," 
1889; "The Front Yard, and Other Italian 
Stories ; " " Horace Chase," 1894. No woman 
of rarer personal qualities, or with more decided 
gifts as a novelist, figured in her own genera- 
tion of American writers. 

"WRIGHT, William Bull, physician and 
teacher, b. New York, N. Y., 1840 ; d. Atlanta, 
Ga., 1880. His home was in Buffalo, N. Y. 
Dr. Wright served in the Civil War, and was 
professor of ancient languages in the Buffalo 
normal school, 1871-78. Author of " Highland 



Rambles," poems, 1868 ; and " The Brook, and 
Other Poems," 1873. 

" XARIFFA." — See M. A. {Van V.) 
Townsend. 

YOUNG, Edward, b. Bristol, Eng., 1818. 
He came to the United States in 1832. His 
parents settled in Trenton, N. J., where he 
learned the watchmaker's trade. After changes 
of residence he removed to Lexington, Ga., 
which became his permanent home. His 
volume, " Ladye LiUian, and Other Poems," 
appeared in 1859, 

YOUNG, William, b. Monmouth, 111., 
1847. He took a course in law, but wishing to 
become a dramatist, for a while went on the 
stage. He also made a study of the drama 
while living in London. His plays, "Jonquil," 
1871 ; " The Rogue's March," 1872 ; " Pendia- 
gon," verse, 1881 ; " The Rajah," 1883 ; " Gan- 
elon," verse, 1889, — were produced in Chi- 
cago and New York City. His " Wishmaker's 
Town," 1885 (new ed. 1898, with a preface by 
T. B. Aldrich), is a series of quaint and imagi- 
native poems on one theme. His dramatic set- 
ting of Wallace's "Ben Hur" was placed on 
the New York stage, 1899-1900. 



INDEXES 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



A BABY lying on his mother's breast, 360. 
A bale-fire kindled in the night, 676. 
A ball of fire shoots through the tamarack, 326. 
A beam of light, from the infinite depths of the 

midnight sky, 718. 
A bed of ashes and a half -burned brand, 735. 
A bird in my bower, 483. 
A bluebird lives in yonder tree, 552. 
A brave little bird that fears not God, 654. 
A breath can fan love's flame to burning, 449. 
About her head or floating feet, 492. 
Above them spread a stranger sky, 48. 
A boy named Simon sojourned in a dale, 473. 
A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here 's 

to the Captain bold, 717. 
A child said, What is the grass ? fetching it to 

me with full hands, 222. 
A cloud possessed the hollow field, 508. 
A cold coiled line of mottled lead, 655. 
A crazy bookcase, placed before, 159. 
Across the Eastern sky has glowed, 520. 
Across the gardens of Life they go, 755. 
Across the narrow beach we flit, 369. 
Across the sombre prairie sea, 720. 
A darkened hut outlined against the sky, 532. 
A day and then a week passed by, 142. 
A dead Soul lay in the light of day, 740. 
Adieu, fair isle ! I love thy bowers, 73. 
Adieu, kind Life, though thou hast often been, 

441. 
Admiral, Admiral, sailing home, 717. 
A Dresden shepherdess was one day, 768. 
A dryad's home was once the tree, 170. 
A flame went flitting through the wood, 633. 
A fleet with flags arrayed, 125. 
After all, 622. 
After an interval, reading, herein the midnight, 

232. 
Age cannot wither her whom not gray hairs, 

465. 
A giant came to me when I was young, 352. 
Agnes, thou child of harmony, now fled, 766. 
A great, still Shape, alone, 351. 
Ah, be not false, sweet Splendor ! 477. 
Ah, blessedness of work I the aimless mind, 565. 
Ah, broken is the golden bowl I the spirit flown 

forever! 147. 
Ah, Clemence ! when I saw thee last, 155. 
Ah, Jack it was, and with him little Jill, 473. 
Ah, June is here, but where is May? 346. 
Ah ! little flower, upspringing, azure-eyed, 495. 
Ah, me ! I know how like a golden flower, 692. 
Ah, moment not to be purchased, 275. 
A house of sleepers — I, alone unblest, 575. 



Ah, what can ever be more stately and admira- 
ble to me than mast-hemmed Manhattan? 

226. 
A lady red upon the hill, 321. 
Alas ! that men must see, 624. 
A life on the ocean wave, 177. 
A line in long array where they wind betwixt 

green islands, 231. 
A little blind girl wandering, 243. 
A little face there was, 418. 
A little Maid of Astrakan, 281. 
A little way below her chin, 650. 
A little way to walk with you, my own, 624. 
A little while (my life is almost set !), 319. 
All day and all day, as I sit at my measureless 

turning, 657. 
All day and many days I rode, 655. 
Ail day long roved Hiawatha, 119. 
All day the waves assailed the rock, 97. 
All Green Things on the earth, bless ye the 

Lord ! 367. 
All hail ! thou noble land, 18. 
All in the leafy darkness, when sleep had passed 

me by, 657. 
All night long through the starlit air and the 

stillness, 749. 
" All quiet along the Potomac," they say, 454. 
All up and down in shadow-town, 651. 
All ye who love the springtime — and who but 

loves it well, 461. 
Almost afraid they led her in, 377. 
Aloft he guards the starry folds, 236. 
Alone I walked the ocean strand, 30. 
Along Ancona's hills the shimmering heat, 325. 
A long, rich breadth of Holland lace, 411. 
Along the country roadside, stone on stone, 

707. 
Along the pastoral ways I go, 612. 
Along the shore the slimy brine-pits yawn, 279. 
Alter ? When the hills do, 321. 
A man by the name of Bolus — (all 'at we '11 

ever know), 563. 
A man more kindly, in his careless way, 730. 
A mariner sat on the shrouds one night, 127. 
A mighty fortress is our God, 192. 
A mighty Hand, from an exhaustless Urn, 67. 
Amid the chapel's chequered gloom, 621. 
A million little diamonds, 588. 
A mist was driving down the British Channel, 

120. 
Among the priceless gems and treasures rare, 

523. 
Among the thousand, thousand spears that roll, 

365. 



838 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



Ancient of days, Who sittest, throned in glory, 

468. 
Ajid do our loves all perish with our frames ? 21. 
A-nd if he should come again, 705. 
And, lo ! leading a blessed host comes one, 660. 
And oh, to think the sun can shine, 372. 
"And this is freedom ! " cried the serf ; "At 

last," 524. 
And this is the way the baby woke, 560. 
And thou art gone, most loved, most honored 

friend ! 18. 
And Thou ! whom earth still holds, and wiU not 

yield, 243. 
" And you, Sir Poet, shall you make, I pray," 

701. 
An English lad, who, reading in a book, 612. 
An heritage of hopes and fears, 710. 
A nightingale once lost his voice, 752. 
A night : mysterious, tender, quiet, deep, 663. 
A noisette on my garden path, 690. 
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, 93. 
An old man in a lodge within a park, 124. 
Anonymous — nor needs a name, 489. 
Another guest that winter night, 138. 
A nymph there was in Arcadie, 767. 
A pale Italian peasant, 551. 
A path across a meadow fair and sweet, 277. 
A peasant stood before a king and said, 266. 
A pilgrim am I, on my way, 298. 
A pitcher of mignonette, 597. 
A poet's soul has sung its way to God, 329. 
A poet writ a song of May, 645 ._ 
A public haunt they found her in, 608. 
A purple cloud hangs half-way down, 419. 
A raven sat upon a tree, 742. 
Are there favoring ladies above thee ? 666. 
Arise, O soul, and gird thee up anew, 630, 
A rose's crimson stain, 607. 
Around this lovely valley rise, 294. 
Art thou some winged Sprite, that, fluttering 

round, 497. 
Art thou the same, thou sobbing winter wind ? 

678. 
As a bell in a chime, 550. 
As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, 124. 
As a twig trembles, which a bird, 204. 
As by the instrument she took her place, 330. 
A scent of guava-blossoms and the smell, 330. 
As doth his heart who travels far from home, 
■ 298. 

As dyed in blood the streaming vines appear, 400. 
As flame streams upward, so my longing 

thought, 544. 
As I came down from Lebanon, 658. 
As I came down Mount Tamalpais, 635. 
A sight in camp in the daybreak gray and dim, 

231. 
A silver birch-tree like a sacred maid, 410. 
A simple-hearted child was He, 669. 
As I sit on a log here in the woods among the 

clean-faced beeches, 620. 
As I was strolling down a woodland way, 743. 
A soldier of the Cromwell stamp, 380. 
As one advances upthe slow ascent, 724. 
As one by one the singers of our land, 684. 
As one who follows a departing friend, 259. 
As one who held herself a part, 138. 



A song lay silent in my pen, 767. 

A song ! What songs have died, 253. 

As on the gauzy wings of fancy flying, 162. 

As some mysterious wanderer of the skies, 634, 

As the insect from the rock, 415. 

As the transatlantic tourists, 472. 

As the wind at play with a spark, 358. 

As through the Void we went I heard his 

plumes, 497. 
As to a bird's song she were listening, 597. 
As we the withered ferns, 728. 
At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, 123. 
" At dawn, "he said, " I bid them all farewell," 

455. 
At Eutaw Springs the valiant died, 3. 
A throat of thunder, a tameless heart, 613. 
A thousand silent years ago, 220. 
At midnight, in his guarded tent, 36. 
At midnight, in the month of June, 146. 
At Shelley's birth, 489. 
At table yonder sits the man we seek, 617. 
At the king's gate the subtle noon, 324. 
Autumn was cold in Plymouth town, 553, 
A viewless thing is the wind, 646. 
Awake ! Awake ! 506. 
Awake, ye forms of verse divine ! 46. 
A weapon that comes down as still, 34. 
A week ago to-day, when red-haired Sally, 291. 
A whisper on the heath I hear, 763. 
A whisper woke the air, 170. 
A white rose had a sorrow, 571. 
Ay, Dwainie i — My Dwainie ! 563. 
A year ago how often did I meet, 326. 
Ay, not at home, then, didst thou say ? 376. 
A youth in apparel that glittered, 734. 
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! 153. 
Ay, this is freedom ! — these pure skies, 59. 
Ay ! tFnto thee belong, 347. 
Azaleas — whitest of white ! 349. 

Backward, turn backward, time, in your 

flight, 329. 
Bathsheba came out to the sun, 611. 
Battles nor songs can from oblivion save, 610. 
Beautiful ! Sir, you may say so. Thar is n't 

her match in the country, 403. 
Before Him weltered like a shoreless sea, 387, 
Behind him lay the gray Azores, 426. 
Behind the hilltop drops the sun, 516. 
Behold a hag whom Life denies a kiss, 710. 
" Behold another singer ! " Criton said, 348, 
Behold, the grave of a wicked man, 734. 
Behold the portal : open wide it stands, 564, 
" Believe in me," the Prophet cried, 467. 
Bend low, O dusky Night, 355. 
Beneath the burning brazen sky, 655. 
Beneath the Memnonian shadows of Memphis, 

it rose from the slime, 413. 
Beneath the midnight moon of May, 371. 
Beneath thy spell, O radiant summer sea, 636, 
Beside her ashen hearth she sate her down, 662. 
Beside that tent and under guard, 670. 
Beside the landsman knelt a dame, 526. 
Between the dark and the daylight, 122. 
Between the falling leaf and rose-bud's breath, 

377. 
Between the mountains and the sea, 447. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



839 



Between the sunken sun and the new moon, 318. 

Be ye in love with April-tide ? 6()0. 

Beyond the bourn of mortal death and birth, 

671. 
Beyond the low marsh-meadows and the beach, 

173. 
Beyond the sea, I know not where, 579. 
Bind us the morning-, mother of the stars, 574. 
Birds are singing round my window, 280. 
Black riders came from the sea, 734. 
Black Tragedy lets slip her grim disguise, 384. 
Blessings on thee, little man, 130. 
Blind as the song of birds, 252. 
Blow softly, thrush, upon the hush, 723. 
Blue gulf all around us, 247. 
Blue hills beneath the haze, 431. 
Bold, amiable, ebon outlaw, grave and wise ! 

531. 
Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans, 541. 
Boy, I detest these modern innovations, 769. 
Break forth, break forth, Sudbury town, 609. 
Break not his sweet repose, 332. 
Break thou my heart, ah, break it, 282. 
Breathe, trumpets, breathe, 189. 
Bring me a cup of good red wine, 181. 
Broad bars of sunset-slanted gold, 532, 
Broncho Dan halts midway of the stream, 690. 
Brook, would thou couldst flow, 425. 
Brother of mine, good monk with cowled head, 

610. 
Brown earth-line meets gray heaven, 718. 
Bugles ! 703. 

Burly, dozing humble-bee, 92. 
But do we truly mourn our soldier dead, 736. 
By the flow of the inland river, 292. 
By the merest chance, in the twilight gloom, 

580. 
By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 100. 
By the waters of Life we sat together, 343. 
By the wayside, on a mossy stone, 108. 

Calling, the heron flies athwart the blue, 710. 
Calm as that second summer which precedes, 

316. 
Calm Death, God of crossed hands and passion- 
less eyes, 649. 
Can freckled August, — drowsing warm and 

blonde, 708. 
Captain of the Western wood, 407. 
Carved by a mighty race whose vanished hands, 

522. 
Cast on the water by a careless hand, 446. 
Channing ! my Mentor whilst my thought was 

young, 77. 
Child of sin and sorrow, 19. 
Children, do you ever, 621. 
Child, weary of thy baubles of to-day, 631. 
Child with the hungry eyes, 692. 
Circling on high, in cloudless sky, 763. 
City of God, how broad and far, 254. 
Climbing up the hillside beneath the summer 

stars, 641. 
Clime of the brave ! the high heart's home, 84. 
Close his eyes ; his work is done ! 264. 
Close on the edge of a midsummer dawn, 381. 
" Come a little nearer. Doctor, — thank you, — 

let me take the cup," 388. 



Come, all you sailors of the southern waters, 353. 
Come back and bring my life again, 19(j. 
Come, dear old comrade, you and I, 158. 
Come down, ye graybeard mariners, 556. 
Conie hither and behold this lady's face, 356. 
Come learn with me the fatal song, 96. 
Come, let us plant the apple-tree, 62. 
Come listen, Love, to the voice of the dove, 

429. 
Come not again ! I dwell with you, 536. 
Come, on thy swaying feet, 640. 
Come, Silence, thou sweet reasoner, 425. 
Come, stack arms, men ; pile on the rails, 277. 
Come to me, angel of the weary hearted ! 169. 
Come, Walter Savage Landor, come this way, 

332. 
Cooper, whose name is with his country's woven, 

40. 
" Corporal Green ! " the Orderly cried, 456. 
Could but this be brought, G85. 
Could she come back who has been dead so 

long, 673. 
Couldst thou. Great Fairy, give to me, 354. 
Coward, — of heroic size, 404. 

" Dame, how the moments go," 556. 

Darest thou now, soul, 232. 

Darkness and death ? Nay, Pioneer, for thee, 

483. 
Dark, thinned, beside the wall of stone, 611. 
Daug-hter of Egypt, veil thine eyes ! 272. 
Daughter of Venice, fairer than the moon ! 496. 
Daughters of Time, the hypoeritic days, 96. 
Day and night my thoughts incline, 282. 
Day in melting purple dying, 73. 
Days of my youth, 10. 
Day of wrath, that day of burning, 193. 
Dear, if you love me, hold me most your friend, 

731. _ 
Dear little Dorothy, she is no more ! 539. 
Dear Lord ! Kind Lord ! 564. 
Dear Lord, thy table is outspread, 297. 
Dear marshes, by no hand of man, 695. 
Dear singer of our fathers' day, 358. 
Dear Sir, — you wish to know my notions, 206. 
Dear, when the sun is set, 539. 
Dear, when you see my grave, 539. 
Dear wife, last midnight, whilst I read, 529, 
Death could not come between us two, 759. 
Death in this tomb his weary bones hath laid, 4. 
Death 's but one more to-morrow. Thou art 

gray, 312. 
Death, thou 'rt a cordial old and rare, 434. 
Deep in a Rose's glowing heart, 624. 
Deep in the heart of the forest the lily of 

Yarrow is growing, 546. 
Deep in the wave is a coral grove, 70. 
De gray owl sing fum de chimbly top, 623. 
Delayed till she had ceased to know, 322. 
De massa ob de sheepfol', 635. 
Did Chaos form, — and water, air, and fire, 

652. 
Dimpled and flushed and dewy pink he lies, 

701._ 
Disguise upon disguise, and then disguise, 570. 
Dismiss your apprehension, pseudo bard, 359. 
Divinely shapen cup, thy lip, 650. 



840 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



Dixon, a Choctaw, twenty years of age, 480. 
Does the pearl know, that in its shade and 

sheen, 754. 
Don Juan has ever the grand old air, 361. 
Do not waste your pity, friend, 702. 
Don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt, 

233. 
Dost deem him weak that owns his strength is 

tried ? 515. 
Down from a sunken doorstep to the road, 742. 
Down in a garden olden, 651. 
Down in the bleak December bay, 256. 
Down the long hall she glistens like a star, 519. 
Down the world with Mama ! 702. 
Do you fear the force of the wind, 656. 
Do you remember, my sweet, absentson, 537. 
Drink ! drink ! to whom shall we drink ? 17. 
Dumb Mother of all music, let me rest, 745. 

Each golden note of music greets, 013. 

Each of us is like Balboa : once in all our lives 

do we, 549. 
Edith, the silent stars are coldly gleaming, 187. 
Eileen of four, 540. 
Eli, Eli, lama sabaethani ? 413. 
Enamoured architect of airy rhyme, 382. 
Enchantress, touch no more that strain ! 332. 
En garde. Messieurs, too long have I endured, 

638. 
England, I stand on thy imperial ground, 594. 
Ere last year's moon had left the sky, 184. 
Ere yet in Vergil I could scan or spell, 696. 
Ermine or blazonry, he knew them not, 239. 
Even as tender parents lovingly, 351 . 
Even at their fairest still I love the less, 422. 

Faint, faint and clear, 447. 

Fair are the flowers and the children, but their 

subtle suggestion is fairer, 343. 
Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, 4. 
Fair is each budding thing the garden shows, 

721. 
Fair lady with the bandaged eye ! 47. 
Fair Roslin Chapel, how divine, 546. 
Fair star, new-risen to our wondering eyes, 675. 
Fairy spirits of the breeze, 374. 
Fallen ? How fallen ? States and empires 

faU, 244. 
Far, far away, beyond a hazy height, 715. 
Far-off a young State rises, full of might, 350. 
Farragut, Farragut, 457. 
Far up the lonely mountain-side, 331. 
Fasten the chamber ! 290. 

Fathered by March, the daffodils are here, 609. 
Father, I scarcely dare to pray, 325. 
Father, I will not ask for wealth or fame, 166. 
" Father of lakes ! " thy waters bend, 87. 
Father ! whose hard and cruel law, 443. 
Farewell, my more than fatherland ! 27. 
Few, in the days of early youth, 89. 
Few men of hero-mould, 595. 
Fierce burns our fire of driftwood : overhead, 

735. 
Fifty leagues, fifty leagues — and I ride, 765. 
Finding Francesca full of tears, I said, 240. 
Fit theme for song, the sylvan maid, 600. 
Flower of the moon ! 662. 



Flower of youth, ip the ancient frame, 508. 
Flower, that I hold in my hand, 565. 
For a cap and bells our lives we pay, 204. 
For death must come, and change, and, though 

the loss, 673. 
Foreseen in the vision of sages, 272. 
Forever am I conscious, moving here, 383. 
Forgiveness Lane is old as youth, 714. 
For, lo ! the living God doth bare his arm, 661. 
For many blessings I to God upraise, 412. 
For me the jasmine buds unfold, 636. 
For sixty days and upwards, 317. 
For them, God, who only worship Thee, 242. 
For, America, our country ! — land, 533. 
Four straight brick walls, severely plain, 313. 
Four things a man must learn to do, 547. 
Framed in the cavernous fire-place sits a boy, 

632. 
Freedom's first champion in our fettered land ! 

79. 
Friends of the Muse, to you of right belong, 161. 
Fringing cypress forests dim, 576. 
From far away, from far away, 521. 
From some sweet home, the morning train, 366. 
From the Desert I come to thee, 272. 
From the drear wastes of unfulfilled desire, 

467. 
From their folded mates they wander far, 645. 
From the misty shores of midnight, touched 

with splendors of the moon, 547. 
From this quaint cabin window I can see, 735. 
Frowning, the mountain stronghold stood, 481. 
Furl that Banner, for 't is weary, 402. 

' ' Gargon ! You — you , " 286 . 

Gather all kindreds of this boundless realm, 

201. 
Gaunt, rueful knight, on raw-boned, shambling 

hack, 552. 
Gay, guiltless pair, 51. 
Gently, Lord, oh, gently lead us, 19. 
Give honor and love for evermore, 429. 
" Give me a fillet. Love," quoth I, 707. 
Give me a race that is run in a breath, 638. 
Give me the room whose every nook, 650. 
Give me the splendid silent sun with all his 

beams full-dazzling, 225. 
Give me to die unwitting of the day, 338. 
" Give us a song ! " the soldiers cried, 274. 
Glooms of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided and 

woven, 435. 
Glory and honor and fame and everlasting lau- 
dation, 476. 
Go bow thy head in gentle spite, 267. 
God called the nearest angels who dwell with 

Him above, 139. 
God dreamed — the suns sprang flaming into 

space, 444. 
God keep you, dearest, all this lonely night, 449. 
Godlike beneath his grave divinities, 490. 
God made a little gentian, 321. 
God makes sech nights, all white an' still, 207. 
Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 128. 
Good-by : nay, do not grieve that it is over, 662. 
Good Master, you and I were born, 313. 
Good-night ! I have to say good-night, 380. 
Good oars, for Arnold's sake, 665. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



841 



Go, Rose, and in her golden hair, 650. 

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal, 727. 

Go 'way, fiddle ! folks is tired o' hearin' you 

a-squawkin', 568. 
Grandmother's mother : her age, I guess, 160. 
Great Sovereign of the earth and sea, 407. 
Great thoughts in crude, unshapely rerse set 

forth, 384. 
Green be the turf above thee, 37. 
Green blood fresh pulsing through the trees, 

719. 
Green grew the reeds and pale they were, 691. 
Guvener B. is a sensible man, 205. 

Had I the power, 660. 

Hail, Columbia ! happy land ! 14. 

Hail to the brightness of Zion's glad morning, 

19. 
Hail to the land whereon we tread, 70. 
Handsome ? I hardly know. Her profile 's 

fine, 700. 
Happy are they and charmed in life, 236. 
Happy Song-sparrow, that on woodland side, 

175. 
Hark ! 509. 

Hark at the lips of this pink whorl of shell, 651. 
Haro ! Haro ! 598. 
Haroun, the CaUph, through the sunlit street, 

467. 
Has any one seen my Fair, 423. 
Hast thou a lamp, a little lamp, 634. 
Hast thou named all the birds without a gun ? 

84. 
Hath not the dark stream closed above thy 

head, 572. 
Hats off ! 756. 

Headless, without an arm, a figure leans, 648. 
Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece, 202. 
Hear the sledges with the bells, 150. 
Heart, we will forget him ! 321. 
He ate and drank the precious words, 320. 
Heaven is mirrored. Love, deep in thine eyes, 671. 
Heaven is open every day, 432. 
He brought a Lily white, 490. 
He came too late ! — Neglect had tried, 682. 
He caught his chisel, hastened to his bench, 499. 
He comes, the happy warrior, 732. 
He crawls along the mountain walls, 360. 
He cried aloud to God : " The men below," 714. 
He did n't know much music, 623. 
He 'd nothing but his violin, 580. 
Heedless she strayed from note to note, 408. 
Heed the old oracles, 95. 
He gathered cherry-stones, and carved them 

quaintly, 480. 
He knelt beside her pillow, in the dead watch 

of the night, 371. 
Helen, thy beauty is to me, 144. 
He lies low in the levelled sand, 427. 
He loved her, having felt his love begin, 643. 
He loves not well whose love is bold ! 371. 
He might have won the highest guerdon that 

heaven to earth can give, 568. 
Her aged hands are worn with works of love, 

687. 
Her casement like a watchful eye, 297. 
Her dimpled cheeks are pale, 577. 



Here, 345. 

Here are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarled pines, 

61. 
Here at the country inn, 646. 
Here, Charmian, take my bracelets, 218. 
Here falls no light of sun nor stars, 706. 
Here — for they could not help but die, 3. 
Here from the brow of the hill I look, 232. 
Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere, 199. 
Here in the dark what ghostly figures press ! 

550. 
Here in this room where first we met, 667. 
Here lived the soul enchanted, 487. 
"Here, lily-white lady mine," 525. 
Here room and kingly silence keep, 428. 
Here they give me greeting, 745. 
Her eyes be like the violets, 609. 
Her hands are cold ; her face is white, 159. 
He rides at their head, 235. 
Her lips were so near, 503. 
Her suffering ended with the day, 197. 
Her voice was like the song of birds, 477. 
Her ways were gentle while a babe, 126. 
He sang one song and died — no more but that, 

505. 
He sang the airs of olden times, 168. 
He sleeps at last — a hero of his race, 614. 
He speaks not well who doth his time deplore, 

478. 
He was in love with truth and knew her near, 

620. 
He was six years old, just six that day, 588. 
He who hath loved hath borne a vassal's chain. 

716. 
He who would echo Horace' lays, 200. 
He wrought with patience long and weary years, 

762. 
Hey, laddie, hark, to the merry, merry lark, 

711. 
High above hate I dwell, 667. 
High-lying, sea-blown stretches of green turf, 

663. 
High towered the palace and its massive pile, 71. 
High walls and huge the body may confine, 102. 
His body lies upon the shore, 725. 
His broad-brimmed hat pushed back with care- 
less air, 428. 
His cherished woods are mute. The stream 

glides down, 326. 
His echoing axe the settler swung, 171. 
His face is truly of the Roman mould, 399. 
His falchion flashed along the Nile, 34. 
His feet were shod with music and had wings, 

496. 
His footprints have failed us, 429. 
His fourscore years and five, 391. 
His grace of Marlborough, legends say, 375. 
His soul extracted from the public sink, 6. 
His tongue was touched with sacred fire, 548. 
His way in farming all men knew, 451. 
Hit 's a mighty fur ways up de Far'well Ijane 

514. 
Ho, a song by the fire ! 705. 
Ho ! City of the gay ! 48. 
Hold high the woof, dear friends, that we may 

see, 761. 
Holy of England ! since my light is short, 665. 



842 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



Home from the observatory, 631. 

Home of the Percys' high-lDorn race, 37. 

Honest Stradivari made me, 641. 

Hope, is this thy hand, 620. 

Hopes grimly banished from the heart, 613. 

Ho ! pony. Down the lonely road, 417. 

" Ho, there ! Fisherman, hold your hand ! " 303. 

How are songs begot and bred ? 280. 

How, as a spider's web is spun, 590. _ 

How beautiful to live as thou didst live I 536. 

How can it be that I forget, 719. 

How cold are thy baths, Apollo ! 125. 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my 
childhood, 20. 

How fades that native breath, 686. 

" How I should like a birthday ! " said the 
child, 761. • . . . 

How long it seems since that mild April night, 
369. 

How long I 've loved thee, and how well, 624. 

How shall we know it is the last good-by ? 357. 

How shall we tell an angel, 700. 

How slight a thing may set one's fancy drifting, 
563. 

How small a tooth hath mined the season's 
heart ! 574. 

How still the room is ! But a while ago, 363. 

How they are provided for upon the earth (ap- 
pearing at intervals), 221. 

Hundreds of stars in the pretty sky, 588. 

Hymettus' bees are out on filmy wing, 188. 

I am a white falcon, hurrah ! 282. 

I am dying, Egypt, dying ! 303. 

I am immortal ! I know it ! I feel it ! 772. 

I am not what I was yesterday, 732. 

I am old and blind ! 193. 

I am the mown grass, dying at your feet, 760. 

I am the spirit of the morning sea, 474. 

I am the Virgin ; from this granite ledge, 687. 

I am Thy grass, Lord ! 611. 

I and my cousin Wildair met, 554. 

I ask not how thy sujffering came, 719. 

I bear an unseen burden constantly, 524. 

I beg the pardon of these flowers, 631. 

I broke one day a slender stem, 364. 

I burn no incense, hang no wreath, 82. 

I cannot look above and see, 192. 

I cannot make him dead ! 35. 

I celebrate myself, and sing mj'self, 221. 

I could have stemmed misfortune's tide, 198. 

I count my time by times that I meet thee, 

475. 
1 crave, dear Lord, 561. 
I dare not think that thou art by, to stand, 

725. 
I did not think that I should find them there, 

728. 
I died ; they wrapped me in a shroud, 523. 
I do affirm that thou hast saved the race, 400. 
I do not own an inch of land, 299. 
I don't go much on religion, 397. 
I dreamed two spirits came — one dusk as night, 

630. _ 
I explain the silvered passing of a ship at night, 

734. 
If all the trees in aU the woods were men, 161. 



If all the voices of men called out warning you, 

and you could not join your voice with their 

voices, 639. 
If any record of our names, 703. 
I fear no power a woman wields, 670. 
I feel a poem in my heart to-night, 331. 
I feel the breath of the summer night, 259. 
If I, athirst by a stream, should kneel, 739. 
If I but knew what the tree-tops say, 678. 
If I could know, 409. 

If I lay waste and wither up with doubt, 387. 
I fill this cup to one made up, 81. 
If I must die, 744; 

If I shall ever win the home in heaven, 233. 
If I were a cloud in heaven, 290. 
If I were very sure, 420. 
If Jesiis Christ is a man, 478. 
If my best wines mislike thy taste, 385. 
I found a yellow flower in the grass, 652. 
I found the phrase to every thought, 320. 
If recollecting were forgetting, 320. 
If spirits walk, love, when the night climbs 

slow, 693. 
If still they live, whom touch nor sight, 576. 
If there be graveyards in the heart, 712. 
If the red slayer think he slays, 93. 
If this little world to-night, 697. 
If thou wert lying cold and still and white, 463. 
If, when I kneel to pray, 540. 
If wisdom's height is only disenchantment, 730. 
If with light head erect 1 sing, 182. 
I gazed upon the glorious sky, 56. 
I had my birth where stars were bom, 466. 
I have a little kinsman, 333. 
I have not told my garden yet, 322. 
I have two friends — two glorious friends — two 

better could not be, 270. 
I heard the bells of Bethlehem ring, 478. 
I heard the trailing garments of the Night, 111. 
I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses, 

666. 
I hear you, little bird, 543. 
I hung my verses in the wind, 101. 
I idle stand that I may find employ, 173. 
I know a place where the sun is like gold, 692. 
I know a story, fairer, dimmer, sadder, 374. 
I know a way, 432. 

I know, I know where violets blow, 767. 
I know it must be winter rthough I sleep), 575. 
I know not what will befall me : God hangs a 

mist o'er my eyes, 469. 
I lay in silence, dead. A woman came, 444. 
I lay on Delos of the Cyclades, 496. 
I leave behind me the elm-shadowed square, 

.382. 
I lift mine eyes against the sky, 772. 
I lift this sumach-bough with crimson flare, 

.351. 
I like a church ; I like a cowl, 91. 
I like the man who faces what he must, 467. 
I call thy frown a headsman, passing grim, 263 
I '11 not believe the dullard, 746. 
I looked one night, and there Semiramis, 542. 
I look upon thy happy face, 614. 
I loved thee long and dearly, 197. 
I love the old melodious lays, 128. 
I love thy kingdom^, Lord, 10. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



843 



I love to steal awhile away, 28. 

1 made a song for my dear love's delight, 636, 

I made the cross myself whose weight, 720. 

I 'ra a gwine to tell you bout de comin' ob de 

Saviour, 459. 
I met a little Elf-man, once, 693. 
I mid the hills was born, 188. 
I 'm king of the road I I gather, 680. 
In a branch of wiUow hid, 7. 
In an ocean, 'way out yonder, 528. 
In a tangled, scented hollow, 606. 
Inaudible move day and night, 412. 
In a valley, centuries ago, 461. 
In battle-line of sombre gray, 625. 
In days when George the Third was King, 769. 
In each green leaf a memory let die, 756. 
I never build a song by night on day, 542. 
I never had a happier time, 470. 
I never saw a moor, 322. 
In good condition, 768. 
In Heaven a spirit doth dwell, 148. 
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, 

92. 
In my sleep I was fain of their fellowship, fain, 

437. 
Innocent spirits, bright, immaculate ghosts, 386. 
Insect or blossom ? Fragile, fairy thing, 495. 
In shining groups, each stem a pearly ray, 487. 
In spite of aU the learned have said, 4. 
In tangled wreaths, in clustered gleaming stars, 

460. 
In Tennessee the dog-wood tree, 763. 
In the coiled shell sounds Ocean's distant roar, 

649. 
In the darkness deep, 079. 
In the gloomy ocean bed, 498. 
In the greenest of our valleys, 149. 
In the groined alcoves of an ancient tower, 649. 
In their ragged regimentals, 451. 
In the loud waking world I comie and go, 423. 
In the night, 733._ 
In the still, star-lit night, 258. 
In the old churchyard at Fredericksburg, 583. 
In the white moonlight, where the willow waves, 

623. 
In thy coach of state, 719. 
Into the caverns of the sea, 725. 
Into the noiseless country Annie went, 239. 
Into the west of the waters on the living ocean's 

foam, 591. 
Into the woods my Master went, 437. 
In vain we call old notions fudge, 215. 
In what a strange bewilderment do we, 324. 
I pace the sounding sea-bieach and behold, 124. 
I passed by a garden, a little Dutch garden, 681. 
I picture her there in the quaint old room, 422. 
I pray you, what 's asleep ? 669. 
I put thy hand aside, and turn away, 448. 
I read somewhere that a swan, snow-white, 375. 
I read the marble-lettered name, 287. 
I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is 

Truthful James, 405. 
I said " My heart, now let us sing a song," 417. 
I said to Sorrow's awful storm, 29. 
I 's a little Alabama Coon, 680. 
I saw a man, by some accounted wise, 255. 
I saw a picture once by Angelo, 646. 



I saw her scan her sacred scroll, 307. 

I saw him once before, 154. 

I saw Love stand, 767. 

I saw not they were strange, the ways I roam, 

747. 
I saw the constellated matin choir, 2. 
I saw them kissing in the shade, 752. 
I saw these dreamers of dreams go by, 656. 
I saw the twinkle of white feet, 204. 
I saw thy beauty in its high estate, 311. 
I saw — 't was in a dream, the other night, 444. 
I saw two clouds at morning, 76. 
I say it iinder the rose, 384. 
I 's boun' to see my gal to-night, 738. 
I see a tiny fluttering form, 612. 
I see before me now a travelling army halting, 

231. 
I see the cloud-born squadrons of the gale, 318. 
I see the star-lights quiver, 362. 
I see thee still ! thou art not dead, 197. 
I see them, — crowd on crowd they walk the 

earth, 174. 
I send thee a shell from the ocean beach, 341. 
I served in a great cause, 638. 
I shall go out when the light comes in, 720. 
I shot an arrow into the air, 115. 
I sing the hymn of the conquered, who fell in 

the Battle of Life, 219. 
I stand upon the summit of my life, 305. 
I stood within the cypress gloom, 616. 
I studied my tables over and over, and back- 
ward and forward, too, 588. 
" Is water nigh ? " 655. 
I take my chaperon to the play, 600. 
It came upon the midnight clear, 194. 
It cannot be that He who made, 469. 
I think if I should cross the room, 482. 
I think it is over, over, 319. 
I think that we retain of our dead friends, 488. 
It is dark and lonesome here, 282. 
It is good to strive against wind and rain, 698. 
It is in Winter that we dream of Spring, 531. 
It is not death to die, 192. 
It is that pale, delaying hour, 515. 
It is the bittern's solemn cry, 677. 
It is the hour when Arno turns, 741. 
It is the same infrequent star, 191. 
It is time to be old, 97. 
It lies around us like a cloud, 194. 
I tink I hear my brudder say, 459. 
I tripped along a narrow way, 701. 
I told myself in singing words, 667. 
I try to knead and spin, but my life is low the 

while, 665. 
It seemed to be but chance, yet who shall say, 

693. 
It settles softly on your things, 700. 
It sings to me in sunshine, 289. 
It 's only we. Grimalkin, both fond and fancy 

free, 410. 
It trembled off the key, — a parting kiss, 715. 
It was a Sergeant old and gray, 456. 
It was a still autumnal day, 488. 
It was but yesterday, my love, thy little heart 

beat high, 76. 
It was Christmas Eve in the year fourteen, 301. 
It was many and many a year ago, 151. 



844 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



It was nothing but a rose I gave her, 354. 

It was only the clinging touch, 592. 

1 understand the large hearts of heroes, 223. 

I 've borne full many a sorrow, I 've suffered 

many a loss, 567. 
I waked ; the sim was in the sky, 346. 
I walked beside the evening sea, 305. 
1 wanted you when skies were red, 715. 
I warn, like the one drop of rain, 537. 
I was asking for something specific and perfect 

for my city, 226. 
" I was with Grant " — the stranger said, 406. 
I watch the leaves that flutter in the wind, 351. 
I watch her in the corner there, 289. 
I weep those dead lips, white and dry, 691. 
I went to dig a grave for Love, 719. 
I will not look for him, I will not hear, 754. 
I will rise, I will go from the places that are 

dark with passion and pain, 592. 
I wish I were the little key, 403. 
I wish that I could have my wish to-night, 391. 
I won a noble fame, 363. 
I wonder, dear, if you had been, 541. 
I would I had been island-born, 696. 
I would not live alway — live alway below ! 74, 
I would unto my fair restore, 666. 
I write my name as one, 141. 
I wrote some lines once on a time, 154. 

Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley, 84. 

Jesus, there is no dearer name than thine, 166. 

Jubilant the music through the fields a-ringing, 

345. 
Just as the spring came laughing through the 

strife, 401. 
Just ere the darkness is withdrawn, 613. 
Just lost when I was saved ! 320. 
Just when each bud was big with bloom, 672. 
Just where the Treasury's marble front, 334. 

Keep back the one word more, 612. 

Keep me, I pray, in wisdom's way, 529. 

King Solomon stood in the house of the Lord, 

364. 
-Kiss me but once, and in that space supreme, 

754. 
iKit, the recording angel wrote, 534. 
'Know I not who thou mayst be, 403. 

'Lady, there is a hope that all men have, 185. 
Land of uneonquered Pelayo ! land of the Cid 

Campeador ! 396. 
Last night Alicia wore a Tuscan bonnet, 601. 
Last night, when my tired eyes were shut with 

sleep, 286. 
Launched upon ether float the worlds secure, 

390. 
Lay me down beneaf de willers in de grass, 

738. 
Lean close and set thine ear against the bark, 

632. 
Leap to the highest height of spring, 484. 
Lear and Cordelia ! 'twas an ancient tale, 263. 
Lend me thy fillet, Love ! 420. 
Les marts vont vite ! Ay, for a little space, 

598. 
Let hammer on anvil ring, 679. 



Let me come in where you sit weeping, — ay, 

561, 
Life of Ages, richly poured, 254. 
Lighter than dandelion down, 724. 
Light of dim mornings ; shield from heat and 

cold, 268. 
Light-winged Smoke ! Icarian bird, 183. 
Like as the lark that, soaring higher and higher, 

241. 
Like Crusoe with the bootless gold we stand, 

762. 
Like some great pearl from out the Orient, 756. 
Like sonae huge bird that sinks to rest, 736. 
Like to a coin, passing from hand to hand, 534. 
Like to the leaf that falls, 639. 
Linked to a clod, harassed, and sad, 384. 
List to that bird ! His song — what poet pens 

It, 751. 
Little, I ween, did Mary guess, 417. 
" Little Haly ! Little Haly ! " cheeps the robin 

in the tree, 561. 
Little masters, hat in hand, 489. 
Little Orphant Annie 's come to our house to 

stay, 562. 
Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked 

clown, 90. 
Lo ! above the mournful chanting, 747. 
Lo ! Death has reared himself a throne, 147. 
Long hours we toiled up through the solemn 

wood, 736. 
Look how it sparkles, see it greet, 763. 
Lo ! through a shadowy valley, 176. 
Lo ! 't is a gala night, 149. ^ 
Lofty against our Western dawn uprises 

Achilles, 567. 
Lonely and cold and fierce I keep my way, 491. 
Long I followed happy guides, 93. 
Long has the summer sunlight shone, 306. 
Long, long before the Babe could speak, 490. 
Look now, directed by yon candle's blaze, 50. 
Look on this east, and know the hand, 335. 
Look out upon the stars, my love, 82. 
"Look up," she said; and all the heavens 

blazed, 416. 
" Love your neighbor as yourself," 589. 
Love must be a fearsome thing, 745. 
Low-anchored cloud, 183. 

Maiden, thy cheeks with tears are wet, 763. 
Many things thou hast given me, dear heart, 500. 
Mark me how still I am ! — The sound of feet, 

674. 
Master of human destinies am I ! 466. 
Maud Muller on a summer's day, 131. 
May de Lord — He will be glad of me, 460. 
Memory cannot linger long, 554. 
Men of the North, look up ! 52. 
Men say the sullen instrument, 217. 
Methinks the measure of a man is not, 766. 
Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 

85. 
Mid the flower-wreathed tombs I stand, 268. 
Mid the white spouses of the Sacred Heart, 470. 
Mimi, do you remember, 504. 
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of 

the Lord, 220. 
Misfortune to have lived not knowing thee 1 77. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



845 



Misshapen, black, unlovely to the sight, 552. 

More shy than the shy violet, 555. 

Most men know love but as a part of life, 316. 

Mother of nations, of them eldest we, 594. 

Much have I spoken of the faded leaf, 257. 

Mute, sightless visitant, .337. 

My absent daughter — gentle, gentle maid, 464. 

My body answers you, my blood, 718. 

My body, eh ? Friend Death, how now ? 325. 

My boy Kree ? 606. 

My brigantine ! 30. 

My brudder sittin' on de tree of life, 459. 

My chile ? Lord, no, she 's none o' mine, 749. 

My Christmas gifts were few : to one, 240. 

My country, 't is of thee, 153. 

My DearHng ! — thus, in days long fled, 327. 

My faith looks up to Thee, 153. 

My feet strike an apex of the apices of the 

stairs, 224. 
My foe was dark, and stern, and grim, 501. 
My highway is unfeatured air, 186. 
My life closed twice before its close, 320. 
My life is like a stroll upon the beach, 182, 
My life is like the summer rose, 27. 
My little girl is nested, 577. 
My little Madchen found one day, 363. 
My little neighbor's table 's set, 633. 
My little one begins his feet to try, 672. 
My love leads the white buUs to sacrifice, 733. 
My Love too stately is to be but fair, 483. 
My mind lets go a thousand things, 384. 
My mother says I must not pass, 375. 
My prow is tending toward the west, 359. 
My short and happy day is done, 398. 
My son, thou wast my heart's delight, 28. 
My soul to-day, 252. 

Myriads of motley molecules through space, 669. 
Myrtle, and eglantine, 506. 
My window is the open sky, 506. 

Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes, 296. 

Nature reads not our labels, "great" and 

"small," 586. 
Nay, I have loved thee ! 496. 
Near strange, weird temples, where the Ganges' 

tide, 522. 
Near the lake where drooped the willow, 83. 
Never a beak has my white bird, 587. 
Never yet was a springtime, 391. 
New England 's dead ! New England 's dead ! 

190. 
Nigger mighty happy w'en he layin' by co'n, 513, 
Night after night we dauntlessly embark, 492. 
Nightingales warble about it, 590. 
Nigh to a grave that was newly made, 681. 
No ceaseless vigil with hard toil we keep, 467. 
No freeman, saith the wise, thinks much on 

death, 688. 
No life in earth, or air, or sky, 404. 
No more the battle or the chase, 490. 
None call the flower ! . . . I will not so malign, 

497. 
No ! No ! 511. 

No, no, I well remember — proofs, you said, 24. 
No, not in the halls of the noble and proud, 167. 
No one could tell me where my Soul might be, 

621. 



Not as when some great Captain falls, 282. 

Not by the ball or brand, 446. 

Not drowsihood and dreams and mere idless, 

647. 
Not from the whole wide world I chose thee, 

475. 
Not in the sky, 107. 
Not in the world of light alone, 157. 
Not least, 't is ever my delight, 724. 
Not lips of mine have ever said, 695. 
Not merely for our pleasure, but to purge, 627. 
Not midst the lightning of the stormy fight, 455. 
Not mine to draw the cloth-yard shaft, 653. 
Not on a prayerless bed, not on a prayerless 

bed, 85. 
Not trust you, dear ? Nay, 't is not true, 669. 
Not with slow, fimereal sound, 385. 
" Not ye who have stoned, not ye who have 

smitten us," cry, 642. 
Now all the cloudy shapes that float and lie, 

269. 
Now aU the flowers that ornament the grass, 

258. 
Now are the winds about us in their glee, 107. 
Now Camilla's fair fingers are plucking in rap- 
ture the pulsating strings, 758. 
Now comes the graybeard of the north, 442. 
Now dandelions in the short, new grass, 333. 
Now England lessens on my sight, 569. 
" Now for a brisk and cheerful fight ! " 277. 
" Now half a hundred years had I been born," 

426. 
" Now I lay me down to sleep," 470. 
Now is Light, sweet mother, down the west, 

516. 
Now is the cherry in blossom, Love, 770. 
Now, on a sudden, I know it, the secret, the 

secret of life, 653. 
" Now since mine even is come at last," 642. 
Now Summer finds her perfect prime, 399. 
Now the frosty stars are gone, 271. 

Oak leaves are big as the mouse's ear, 515. 

O bird, thou dartest to the sun, 249. 

brother Planets, unto whom I cry, 746. 

Captain ! my Captain I our fearful trip is 

done, 231. 
child, had I thy lease of time ! such un- 

imagined things, 673. 
curfew of the setting sun ! Bells of Lynn ! 

123. 
dappled throat of white ! Shy, hidden bird ! 

619. 
dawn upon me slowly, Paradise ! 631. 
O Death, we come full-handed to thy gate, 763. 
destined Land, unto thy citadel, 593. 
Earth ! art thou not weary of thy graves ? 

276. 
O Earth ! thou hast not any wind that blows, 

343. 
O'er a low couch the setting sun had thrown 

its latest ray, 80. 
O'er the wet sands an insect crept, 218. 
O'er the yellow crocus on the lawn, 545. 
Of all the rides since the birth of time, 133. 
O fairest of the rural maids ! 54. 
Of all the souls that stand create, 321. 



846 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



O far-off darling in the South, 362. 

O far-off rose of long ago, 747. 

O flower of passion, rocked by balmy gales, 

771. 
Of old, a man who died, 688. 
O fountain of Bandusia ! 530. 
friends ! with whom my feet have trod, 135. 
Of heavenly stature, but most human smile, 589. 
Often I think of the beautiful town, 121. 
Oft have I stood upon the foaming strand, 766. 
Oft have I wakened ere the spring of day, 576. 
gallant brothers of the generous South, 180. 
God, our Father, if we had but truth ! 421. 
God, thy moon is on the hills, 582. 
gold Hyperion, love-lorn Porphyro, 243. 
Oh, band in the pine-wood, cease ! 455. 
Oh, de good ole chariot swing so low, 459. 
Oh, did you see him riding down, 424. 
Oh, frame some little word for me, 400. 
O, have you been in Gudbrand's dale, where 

Laagen's mighty flood, 512. 
O hearken, all ye little weeds, 626. 
Oh, I am weary of a heart that brings, 766. 
Oh, it' s twenty gallant gentlemen, 040. 
Oh ! little loveliest lady mine, 525. 
Oh mother of a mighty race, 62. 
Oh, the wind from the desert blew in ! — Kham- 
sin, 659. 
Oh, what a night for a soul to go ! 506. 
Oh, what a set of Vagabundos, 338. 
Oh, what 's the way to Arcady, 596. 
0, inexpressible as sweet, 591. 
O, it is great for our country to die, where ranks 

are contending ! 70. 
joy of creation, 407. 
keeper of the Sacred Key, 389. 
Old Horace on a summer afternoon, 768. 
Old man never had much to say, 559. 
Old soldiers true, ah, them all men can trust, 

486. 
Old wine to drink ! 199. 
O lend to me, sweet nightingale, 88. 
O let me die a-singing, 740. 
lifted face of mute appeal ! 509. 
li'P lamb out in de col', 738. 
little buds, break not so fast ! 694. 
O little town of Bethlehem, 468. 
living image of eternal youth ! 626. 
lonesome sea-gull, floating far, 327. 
O Love Divine, that stooped to share, 159. 
love, so sweet at first, 465. 
Olympian sunlight is the Poet's sphere, 423. 
On a green slope, most fragrant with the spring, 

744. 
On an olive-crested steep, 690. 
Once before, this self-same air, 393. 
Once hoary Winter chanced — alas ! 697. 
Once I knew a fine song, 733. 
Once I saw mountains angry, 734. 
Once more, once more, my Mary dear, 84. 
Once the head is gray, 281. 
Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, 60. 
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, 

weak and weary, 144. 
Once when the wind was on the roof, 668. 
One calm and cloudless winter night, 414. 
One day between the Lip and the Heart, 13. 



One day I saw a ship upon the sands, 677. 
One day there entered at my chamber door, 441. 
One day thou didst desert me — then I learned, 

575. 
One elf, I trow, is diving now, 88. 
One night I lay asleep in Africa, 308. 
One sat within a hung and lighted room, 602. 
One shadow glides from the dumb shore, 482. 
One steed I have of common clay, 391. 
One sweetly solemn thought, 297. 
On hoary Conway's battlemented height, 276. 
nightingale, the poets' bird, 718. 
On Kingston Bridge the starlight shone, 553. 
Only to find Forever, blest, 715. 
On scent of game from town to town he flew, 6, 
On softest pillows my dim eyes unclose, 500. 
On the road, the lonely road, 323. 
On the wide veranda white, 737. 
On this wondrous sea, 322. 
On woodlands ruddy with autumn, 65. 
On your bare rocks, barren moors, 186. 
" pitying angel, pause, and say," 533. 
poet rare and old ! 130. 
pour upon my soul again, 18. 
power of Love, wondrous mystery ! 671. 
ruddy Lover, 624. 
O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 

16. 
say, my flattering heart, 20. 
steadfast trees that know, 415. 
0, struck beneath the laurel, where the singing 

fountains are, 592. 
tenderly the haughty day, 100. 
to lie in long grasses ! 654. 
touch me not, unless thy soul, 581. 
thou great Movement of the Universe, 60. 
thou great Wrong that, through the slow- 
paced years, 66. 
thorn-crowned Sorrow, pitiless and stern, 671. 
Ouphe and goblin ! imp and sprite ! 45. 
Our eyeless bark sails free, 97. 
Our fathers' God ! from out whose hand, 140. 
Our many years are made of clay and cloud, 

617. 
Our Mother, loved of all thy sons, 652. 
Our mother, while she turned her wheel, 137. 
Our share of night to bear, 320. 
Out in the dark it throbs and glows, 371 . 
Out in the misty moonlight, 551. 
Out of a cavern on Parnassus' side, 358. 
Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass, 458. 
Out of the cradle endlessly rocking, 227. 
Out of the dusk a shadow, 489. 
Out of the focal and foremost fire, 254. 
Out of the heart there flew a little singing bird, 

658. 
Out of the hills of Habersham, 434. 
Out of the old house, Nancy — moved up into 

the new, 493. 
Out of the mighty Yule log came, 613. 
Out where the sky and the sky-blue sea, 739. 
Overloaded, undermanned, 756. 
Over the dim confessional cried, 714. 
Over the plains where Persian hosts, 533. 
Over our heads the branches made, 633. 
Over their graves rang once the bugle's call, 

634; 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



847 



O, when I hear at sea, 445. 

O white and midnight sky ! starry bath I 

475. 
O, whither sail jon, Sir John Franklin ? 261. 
O white, white, light moon, that sailest in the 

sky, 442. 
woman, let thy heart not cleave, 412. 
ye sweet heavens ! your silence is to me, 241. 
ye who see with other eyes than ours, 6(37. 

Pale beryl sky, Avith clouds, 535. 

Pale, climbing disk, who dost lone vigil keep, 

553. 
Pallid with too much longing, 356. 
People's Attorney, servant of the Right'. 79. 
Poet ! I come to touch thy lance with mine, 

124. 
Poet of the Pulpit, whose full-chorded lyre, 78. 
Poor Creature ! nay, I 'U not say poor, 765. 
" Praise ye the Lord ! " The psalm to-day, 

450. 
Pray for the dead — who bids thee not ? 578. 
Priest of God, unto thee I come, 479. 
Prima cantante ! 366. 
Prince, and Bishop, and Knight, and Dame, 

507. 
Proud, languid lily of the sacred Nile, 578. 
PuJBfed up with luring to her knees, 723. 
Put every tiny robe away I 291. 
Put them in print ? 503. 

Quiet as are the quiet skies, 694. 

Read me no moral, priest, upon my life, 466. 
" Read out the names ! " and Burke sat back, 

547. 
Regent of song ! who bringest to our shore, 244. 
Reluctantly I laid aside my smiles, 769. 
Repent, ye, predestinate to woe ! 507, 
Restless, to-night, and ill at ease, 346. 
Roekaby, lullaby, bees in the clover ! 588. 
Rocked in the cradle of the deep, 29. 
RoU out, song to God ! 469. 
Roman and Jew upon one level lie, 468. 
Romancer, far more coy than that coy sex ! 78. 
Room for a soldier ! lay him in the clover, 238. 
Roses and butterflies snared on a fan, 356. 
Rough pasture where the blackberries grow ! 

727. 
Round among the quiet graves, 358. 
Round de meadows am a-ringing, 289. 
Runs the wind along the waste, 585. 

Sadly as some old mediaeval knight, 1 26. 

Said Life to Death : '" Methinks, if I were you, 

615. 
Said the archangels, moving in their glory, 355, 
Sarvent, Marster ! Yes, sah, dat 's me, 557. 
Saturnian mother ! why dost thou devour, 545. 
Say, in a hut of mean estate, 722. 
Says Stonewall Jackson to " Little Phil," 716. 
Say there ! P'r'aps, 405. 

Science long watched the realms of space, 192. 
"Scorn not the sonnet," though its strength be 

sapped, 768. 
Seal thou the window ! Yea, shut out the 

light, 626, 



See, from this counterfeit of him, 237. 

Seek not, Leuconbe, to know how long you 're 

going to live yet, 531. 
See, yonder, the belfry tower, 651. 
Seraglio of the Sultan Bee ! 651. 
Serene, I fold my hands and wait, 464, 
Serene, vast head, with silver cloud of hair, 655. 
Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden, 

764. 
Shakespeare and Milton — what third blazoned 

name, 381. 
Shall we meet no more, my love, at the binding 

of the sheaves, 323. 
She came among the gathering crowd, 182. 
She came and stood in the Old South Church, 

140. 
She came and went as comes and goes, 581, 
She comes like the hush and beauty of the 

night, 542. 
She comes — the spirit of the dance ! 169, 
She dances, 535. 

She died, — this was the way she died, 322, 
She dreams of Love upon the temple stair, 689. 
She felt, I think, but as a wild-flower can, 377. 
" She has gone to be with the angels," 286, 
She knew that she was growing blind, 198. 
She leaned her cheek upon her hand, 517. 
She lives in light, not shadow, 477. 
She might have known it in the earlier Spring, 

599. 
Shepherd, wilt thou take counsel of the bird, 

508. 
She roves through shadowy solitudes, 630. 
She sees her image in the glass, 356, 
She 's had a Vassar education, 589. 
She sits Avithin the white oak hall, 731. 
She 's loveliest of the festal throng, 319, 
She told the story, and the whole world wept, 

737. 
She wanders up and down the main, 602. 
She was a beauty in the days, 597. 
She was so little — little in her grave, 575, 
Shut in from all the world without, 137. 
Sigh not for love, — the ways of love are dark ! 

754. 
Silence and Solitude may hint, 236. 
Silence instead of thy sweet song, my bird, 163. 
Silence was envious of the only voice, 549. 
Silent amidst unbroken silence deep, 535. 
" Since Cleopatra died ! " Long years are past, 

269. 
Since o'er thy footstool here below, 75. 
Sing me a sweet, low song of night, 744. 
Sin-satiate, and haggard with despair, 627, 
'Skeeters am a hummin' on de honeysuckle 

vine, 681. 
Skin creamy as the furled magnolia bud, 751. 
Skirting the river road (my forenoon walk, my 

rest), 230. 
Sleep, love, sleep I 183. 
Sleep, Motley, with the great of ancient days, 

67. 
Sleep, sleep, sleep, 261. 
Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, 317. 
Slow, groping giant, whose unsteady limbs, 690. 
Slowly by God's hand imfurled, 90. 
Snare me the soul of a dragon-fly, 739. 



848 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



Snatch the departing mood, 611. 

So all day long I followed through the fields, 

772. 
Soe, Mistress Anne, faire neighbour myue, 336. 
So fallen ! so lost ! the light withdrawn, 129. 
Softer than silence, stiller than still air, 268. • 
Softly! 197. 

Softly now the light of day, 76. 
Soft on the sunset sky, 701. 
Soft-sandalled twihght, handmaid of the night, 

581. 
Soft-throated South, breathing of summer's 

ease, 537. 
So happy were Columbia's eight, 768. 
Sole Lord of Lords and very King of Kings, 497. 
Solemnly, mournfully, 116. 
So Love is dead that has been quick so long ! 

357. 
Some space beyond the garden close, 552. 
Some tell us 't is a burnin' shame, 454. 
Something more than the lilt of the strain, 360. 
Sometime, it may be, you and I, 724. 
Some time there ben a lyttel boy, 528. 
Sometime, when after spirited debate, 386. 
Sometimes, when Nature falls asleep, 613. 
Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer 

the Basin of Minas, 116. 
Somewhere — in desolate wind-swept space, 380. 
Sorrow, my friend, 540. 
So that soldierly legend is still on its journey, 

335. 
So then, at last, let me awake this sleep, 685. 
So, the powder 's low, and the larder 's clean, 

643. 
Soul of a tree ungrown, new life out of God's 

life proceeding, 629. 
Soul, wherefore fret thee ? Striving still to 

throw, 492. 
Southrons, hear your country call you ! 165. 
Sparkling and bright in liquid light, 110. 
Speak ! speak ! thou fearful guest ! 112. 
Speechless Sorrow sat with me, 348. 
Spring came with tiny lances thrusting, 600. 
Spirit of "fire and dew," 672. 
Spirits of Sleep, 706. 
Spirit of song, whose shining wings have borne, 

628. 
Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou, 

58. 
Spruce Macaronis, and pretty to see, 278. 
Stand ! the ground 's your own, my braves ! 

34. 
Star-dust and vaporous light, 478. 
Star of the North ! though night winds drift, 33. 
Stars of the summer night ! 115. 
Stern be the pilot in the dreadful hour, 350. 
Still as I move thou movest, 601. 
Still sits the school-house by the road, 139. 
Still thirteen years : 't is autumn now, 216. 
Still though the one I sing, 221. 
Stop on the Appian Way, 259. 
Strain, strain thine eyes, this parting is for aye ! 

628. 
Strong in thy stedfast piirpose, be, 353, 
St. Stephen's cloistered hall was proud, 47. 
Such hints as untaught Nature yields ! 727. 
Such is the death the soldier dies, 532. 



Such natural debts of love our Oxford knows, 

665. 
Such times as windy moods do stir, 731. 
Sullen and dull, in the September day, 502. 
Summer is fading ; the broad leaves that grew, 

344. 
Superb and sole, upon a plumed spray, 437. 
Sure and exact, — the master's quiet touch, 531. 
Sweet bell of Stratford, tolling slow, 373. 
Sweet-breathed and young, 512. 
Sweet child of April, I have found thy place, 

460. 
Sweetest of all childlike dreams, 135. 
Sweet eyes by sorrow still unwet, 622. 
Sweet little maid with winsome eyes, 622. 
Sweet names, the rosary of my evening prayer, 

595. 
Sweet Robin, I have heard them say, 76. 
Sweet saint ! whose rising dawned upon the 

sight, 326. 
Sweet, sweet, sweet, 557. 

Sweet wooded way in life, forgetful Sleep I 56G. 
Sweet World, if you will hear me now, 377. 
Swept by the hot wind, stark, untrackable, 619. 
Swift across the palace floor, 347. 
Swift o'er the sunny grass, 394. 
Swift, through some trap mine eyes have never 

found, 437. 
Swords crossed, — but not in strife ! 86. 

Take all of me, — I am thine own, heart, soul, 

699. 
Tall, sombre, grim, against the morning sky, 

317. 
Tameless in his stately pride, along the lake of 

islands, 171. 
Teach me the secret of thy loveliness, 709. 
Tell me, is there sovereign cure, 576. 
Tell me not in mournful numbers, 112. 
Tell me what sail the seas, 688._ 
Tell me, wide wandering soul, in all thy quest, 

307. 
Tell Youth to play with Wine and Love, 752. 
Thank God that God shall judge my soul, not 

man! 720. 
Thanksgiving to the gods ! 603. 
That face which no man ever saw, 381. 
That night I think that no one slept, 604. 
That sovereign thoiight obscured ? That vision 

clear, 338. 
That such have died enables us, 322. 
That which shall last for aye can have no birth, 

571. 
That year ? Yes, doubtless I remember still, 

337. 
The Actor 's dead, and memory alone, 599. 
The Angel came by night, 285. 
The autumn seems to cry for thee, 491. 
The autumn time is with us. Its approach, 143. 
The banquet-cups, of many a hue and shape, 72. 
The bar is crossed ; but Death — the pilot — 

stands, 490. 
The bearded grass waves in the summer breeze, 

(530. 
The Beautiful, which mocked his fond pursu- 
ing, 364. 
The beauty of the northern dawns, 396. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



851 



The bees in the clover are making honey, and I 

am making my hay, 349. 
The birds have hid, the winds are low, 515. 
The birds their love-notes warble, 23. 
The blackcaps pipe among the reeds, 699. 
The brave young city by the Balboa seas, 429. 
The bright sea washed beneath her feet, 347. 
The cactus towers, straight and tall, 695. 
The cold blast at the casement beats, 177. 
The colonel rode by his picket-line, 386. 
The countless stars, which to our human eye, 

411. 
The crocuses in the Square, 646. 
The cyiDress swamp around me wraps its spell, 

330. 
The day is ended. Ere I sink to sleep, 848. 
The day unfolds like a lotus bloom, 739. 
The despots' heel is on thy shore, 400. 
The dew is on the heather, 577. 
The dirge is sung, the ritual said, 373. 
The dragon-fly and I together, 463. 
" The ducats take ! I '11 sign the bond to-day," 

583. 
The eagle, did ye see him fall ? 432. 
The eagle of the armies of the West, 516. 
The earth seems a desolate mother, 342. 
Thee finds me in the garden, Hannah, — come 

in ! _'T is kind of thee, 273. 
The fair Pamela came to town, 555. 
The faithful helm commands the keel, 480. 
The fields were silent, and the woodland drear, 
■ 486. 

The fifth from the north wall, 378. 
The fire upon the hearth is low, 527. 
The flying sea-bird mocked the floating dulse, 

603. 
The folk who lived in Shakespeare's day, 381. 
The fresh, bright bloom of the daffodils, 555. 
The garden beds I wandered by, 663. 
The garden within was shaded, 643. 
The general dashed along the road, 431. 
The ghosts of flowers went sailing, 486. 
The goblin marked his monarch well, 43. 
The golden-robin came to build his nest, 416. 
The grandeur of this earthly round, 8. 
The grass hung wet on Rydal banks, 181. 
The grass of fifty Aprils hath waved green, 

518. 
The gray waves rock against the gray sky-line, 

694. 
The great Republic goes to war, 740. 
The Great Sword Bearer only knows, 753. 
The Grecian Muse, to earth who bore, 260. 
The groves were God's first temples. Ere man 

learned, 55. 
The half-world's width divides us ; where she 

sits, 378. 
The handful here, that once was Mary's earth, 

238. 
The hand that swept the sounding lyre, 170. 
The heart soars up like a bird, 722. 
The heavy mists have crept away, 670. 
The heavens are our riddle ; and the sea, 721. 
The hound was cuffed, the hound was kicked, 

434. 
The hours I spent with thee, dear heart, 691. 
The hunt is up, the hunt is up, 712. 



The imperial boy had fallen in his pride, 567. 
The innocent, sweet Day is dead, 434. 
Their noonday never knows, 490. 
The knell that dooms the voiceless and obscure. 

535. 
The knightliest of the knightly race, 253. 
The life of man, 286. 
The light of spring, 730. 
The light that fills thy house at morn, 175. 
The little gate was reached at last, 216. 
The little toy dog is covered with dust, 528. 
The long, gray moss that softly swings, 669. 
The love of man and woman is as fire, 499. 
The man in righteousness arrayed, 13. 
The man that joins in life's career, 5. 
The man who frets at worldly strife, 47. 
The May sun sheds an amber light, 63. 
The melancholy days are come, the saddest ot 

the year, 57. 
The mighty soul that is ambition's mate, 570. 
The mill goes toiling slowly around, 527. 
The monarch sat on his judgment-seat, 42. 
The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood 

were pouring, 546. 
The moon has left the sky, 675. 
The morning is cheery, my boys, arouse ! 457. 
The morns are meeker than they were, 321. 
The mother-heart doth yearn at even-tide, 673. 
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat, 248. 
The Muses wrapped in mysteries of light, 542. 
The name thou wearest does thee grievous 

wrong, 634. 
The new moon hung in the sky, 383. 
The news ! our morning, noon, and evening cry, 

50. _ 
The night that has no star lit up by God, 174. 
The night was dark and fearful, 24. 
The night was thick and hazy, 433. 
Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on 

the city, 118_. 
Then saw I, with gray eyes fulfilled of rest, 367. 
Then shall we see and know the group divine, 

571. 
Then that dread angel near the awful throne, 

498. 
The old wine filled him, and he saw, with, eyes, 

543. 
The osprey sails above the sound, 12. 
The Past walks here, noiseless, unasked, alone, 

657. _ 
The Pilgrim Fathers, — where are they 7 35. 
The play was done, 677. 
The poet's secret I must know, 257. 
The promise of these fragrant flowers, 502. 
The Puritan Spring Beauties stood freshly clad 

for church, 644. 
The quarry whence thy form majestic sprung, 

190. 
The Queen sat in her balcony, 342. 
The rainbow on the ocean, 592. 
" There are gains for all our losses," 285. 
There are gains for all our losses, 281. 
There are harps that complain to the presence 

of night, 52. 
There are one or two things I should just like 

to hint, 205. 
There are some quiet ways, 426. 



848 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



ft.'here, as she sewed, came floating through her 

head, 702. 
There be many kinds of parting — yes, I know, 

715. 
There came to port last Sunday night, 589. 
The red rose whispers of passion, 481. 
There in his room, whene'er the moon looks in, 

664. 
There is a clouded city, gone to rest, 584. 
There is a city, builded by no hand, 241. 
There is an hour of peaceful rest, 87. 
There is a race from eld descent, 771. 
There is a sound I would not hear, 686. 
There is but one great sorrow, 281. 
There is Lowell, who 's striving Parnassus to 

climb, 205. 
There is no rhyme that is half so sweet, 708. 
There is no dearer lover of lost hours, 313. 
There ! little girl, don't cry ! 560. 
There 's a song in the air ! 235. 
There 's beauty in the deep, 75. _ 
There smUed the smooth Divine, unused to 

wound, 9. 
There 's not a breath the dewy leaves to stir, 

169. 
There 's something in a noble boy, 105. 
There stood an unsold captive in the mart, 

102. 
There was a captain-general who ruled in Vera 

Cruz, 2()9. 
There was a gay maiden lived down by the mill, 

263. 
There was a land where lived no violets, 734. 
There was a man who watched the river flow, 

519. 
There was a rose-tree grew so high, 761. 
There was a rover from a western shore, 573. 
There was a time when Death and I, 364. 
The rising moon has hid the stars, 114. 
The river widens to a pathless sea, 645. 
The road is left that once was trod, 174. 
The robin chants when the thrush is dumb, 

536. 
The Rose aloft in sunny air, 350. 
The roses of yester year, 678. 
The royal feast was done ; the King, 419. 
The ruddy poppies bend and bow, 753. 
The Saviour, bowed beneath his cross, climbcJ 

up the dreary hill, 402. 
The scarlet tide of summer's life, 305. 
The sea-bound landsman, looking back to shore, 

653. 
These are my scales to weigh reality, 714. 
The sea tells something, but it tells not all, 

330. 
These lands are clothed in burning weather, 

735. 
These pearls of thought in Persian gulfs were 

bred, 215. 
The shadows lay along Broadway, 105. 
The shapes that frowned before the eyes, 79. 
The skies are low, the winds are slow, 447. 
The skies they were ashen and sober, 151. 
The skilful listener, he, methinks, may hear, 

516. 
The sky is a drinking-cup, 281. 
The sky is low, the clouds are mean, 321. 



The smooth-worn coin and threadbare classio 

phrase, 383. 
The snow had begun in the gloaming, 215. 
The song-birds ? are they flown away ? 711. 
The soul of the world is abroad to-night, 621. 
The south-wind brings, 97. 
The sparrow told it to the robin, 588. 
The speckled sky is dim with snow, 294. 
The spinner twisted her slender thread, 448. 
The Spirit of Earth with still, restoring hands, 

542. 
The spring came earlier on, 415. 
The star must cease to burn with its own light, 

412. 
The stars know a secret, 420. 
The sudden thrust of speech is no mean test, 

696. 
The sun comes up and the sun goes down, 275. 
The Sun, departing, kissed the summer Sky, 

763. 
The sun had set, 538. 
The sun has kissed the violet sea, 433. 
The sun is sinking over hill and sea, 615. 
The Sun looked from his everlasting skies, 700. 
The sun set, but set not his hope, 94. 
The sunshine of thine eyes, 537. 
The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home, 

288. 
The swallow is flying over, 187. 
The tide rises, the tide falls, 125. 
The tide slips up the silver sand, 557. 
The time is come to speak, I think, 699. 
The town of Hay is far away, 676. 
The trembling train clings to the leaning wall, 

692. 
The trump hath blown, 89. 
The turtle on yon withered bough, 3. 
The twilight houi-s like birds flew by, 296. 
The vicomte is wearing a brow of gloom, 201. 
The village sleeps, a name unknown, till men, 

708. 
The voice of England is a trumpet tone, 613. 
The wakening bugles cut the night, 751. 
The wars we wage, 726. 
The water sings along our keel, 693. 
The waves forever move, 489. 
The wayfarer, 734. 

The weather-leach of the topsail shivers, 302. 
The whelp that nipped its mother's dug in turn- 
ing from her breast, 483. 
The wilderness a secret keeps, 505. 
The wild geese, flying in the night, behold, 426. 
The Willis are out to-night, 462. _ 
The wind blows wild on Bos'n Hill, 332. 
The wind exultant swept, 702. 
The winds have talked with him confidingljf 

564. 
The wind of Hampstead Heath still burns my 

cheek, 573. 
The wintry blast goes wailing by, 421. 
The wise forget, dear heart, 767. 
The word of God to Leyden came, 295. 
The wreath that star-crowned Shelley gave, 156, 
They are all gone away, 729. 
They are my laddie's hounds, 471. 
They are slaves who fear to speak, 203. 
They cannot wholly pass away, 489. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



851 



They chained her fair young body to the cold 

and cruel stone, 498. 
They dropped like flakes, they dropped like 

stars, 322. 
The Year had all the Days in charge, 587. 
They had brought in such sheafs of hair, 712. 
They made them ready and we saw them go, 

708. 
They glare — those stony eyes ! 247. 
They rise to mastery of wind and snow, 654. 
They rode from the camp at morn, (558. 
They say that, afar in the land of the west, 

89. 
They teil me. Liberty ! that in thy name, 102. 
They tell me that I must not love, 195. 
They tell you that Death's at the turn of the 

road, 637. 
They wait all day unseen by us, unfelt, 393. 
They who create rob death of half its stings, 

496. 
Thine is the mystic melody, 755. 
Thine old-world eyes — each one a violet, 504. 
This ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good 

old tim.es, 155. 
This bears the seal of immortality, 400. 
This book is all that 's left me now ! 83. 
This bronze doth keep the very form and 

mould, 475. 
This, Children, is the famed Mon-goos, 698. 
This drop of ink chance leaves upon my pen, 

676. 
This gentle and half melancholy breeze, 613. 
This is a breath of summer wind, 598. 
This is Palm Sunday : mindful of the day, 239. 
This is the end of the book, 687. 
This is the loggia Browning loved, 551. 
This is the pathway where she walked, 266. _ 
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 

158, 
This is the song of the wave ! The mighty one ! 

743. 
This is the way the baby slept, 561. 
This realm is sacred to the silent past, 328. 
This the true sign of ruin to a race, 107. 
This was the man God gave us when the hour, 

652. 
This was your butterfly, you see, 374. 
This world was not, 585. 
Those days we spent on Lebanon, 377. 
Those earlier men that owned our earth, 180. 
Those were good times, in olden days, 485. 
" Thou art a fool," said my head to my heart, 

737. 
Thou art as a lone watcher on a rock, 543. 
Thou art lost to me forever ! — 1 have lost thee, 

Isadore ! 164. 
Thou art mine, thou hast given thy word, 333. 
Thou art my very own, 759. 
Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, 59. 
Thou, born to sip the lake or spring, 7. 
Thou dancer of two thousand years, 689. 
Thou ever young ! Persephone biit gazes, 566. 
Thou foolish blossom, all untimely blown ! 750. 
Thou for whose birth the whole creation yearned, 

417. 
Though gifts like thine the fates gave not to 

me, 379. 



Though I am humble, slight me not, 22. 
Though I am native to this frozen zone, 382. 
Though the roving bee, as lightly, 507. 
Though thy constant love I share, 275. 
Thought is deeper than all speech, 173. 
Though tuneless, stringless, it lies there in dust, 

544. 
Though Winter come with dripping skies, 723. 
Thou glorious mocker of the world ! I hear. 

163. 
Thou half -unfolded flower, 551. 
Thou happiest thing alive, 167. 
Thou hast done evil, 722. 
Thou livest, soid ! be sure, though earth be 

flames, 571. 
Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, 21 . 
Thou, Sibyl rapt ! whose sympathetic soul, 78. 
Thou spark of life that wavest wings of gold, 

267. 
Thou tall, majestic monarch of the wood, 762. 
Thou, too, sail on, Ship of State ! 119. 
Thou unrelenting Past ! 67. 
Thou wast all that to me, love, 147. 
Thou, who didst lay all other bosoms bare, 543. 
Thou who hast slept all night upon the storm, 

230. 
Thou who ordainest, for the land's salvation, 

361. 
Thou, — whose endearing hand once laid in 

sooth, 339. 
Thou, who wouldst wear the name, 64. 
Three horsemen galloped the dusty way, 534. 
Three steps and I reach the door, 565. 
Through his million veins are poured, 394. 
Through love to light ! Oh wonderful the way, 

478. 
Through my open window comes the sweet per- 
fuming, 767. 
Throughout the soft and sunlit day, 707. 
Through some strange sense of sight or touch, 

709. 
Through storms you reach them and from 

storms are free, 237. 
Through the fierce fever I nursed him, and then 

he said, 579. 
Through the night, through the night, 280. 
Thunder our thanks to her — guns, hearts, and 

Hps! 481. 
Thy cruise is over now, 75. 
Thy face I have seen as one seeth, 694. 
Thy laugh 's a song an oriole trilled, 534. 
Thy one white leaf is open to the sky, 612. 
Thy span of life was all too short, 693. 
Thy trivial harp will never please, 94. 
Time cannot age thy sinews, nor the gale, 446. 
Time has no flight — 't is we who speed along, 

467. 
Tinged with the blood of Aztec lands, 361. 
'T is but a little faded flower, 300. 
'Tis of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the 

stripes and stars, 8. 
'Tis said that absence conqiiers love, 196. 
'Tis said that the gods on Olympus of old. 111. 
'Tis something from that tangle to have won, 

653. 
'Tis the blithest, bonniest weather for a bird to 

flirt a feather, 647. 



8^2 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



'T is to yourself I speak ; you cannot know, 

174. 
'T is true, one half of woman's life is hope, 330. 
To-day, dear heart, but just to-day, 712. 
To eastward ringing, to westward winging, o'er 

mapless miles of sea, 741. 
To him who in the love of Nature holds, 53. 
Toil on, poor muser, to attain that goal, 523. 
To kiss m.y Celia's fairer breast, 28. 
To me the earth once seemed to be, 368. 
To put new shingles on old roofs, 608. 
To spring belongs the violet, and the blown, 

385. _ 
Tossing his mane of snows in wildest eddies and 

tangles, 386. 
To stand within a gently gliding boat, 632. 
To the brave all homage render, 265. 
To the quick brow Fame grudges her best 

wreath, 351. 
To the sea-shells' spiral round, 379, 
To tremble, when I touch her hands, 591. 
To what new fates, my country, far, 704. 
To you, whose temperate pulses flow, 502. 
Trembling before thine awful throne, 86. 
True love's own talisman, which here, 666. 
Turning from Shelley's sculptured face aside, 

654. 
Turn out more ale, turn up the light, 342. 
Turn with me from the city's clamorous street, 

582. 
Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of 

gloom, 115. 
'T was one of the charmed days, 95. 
'T was summer, and the spot a cool retreat, 168. 
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all 

through the house, 15. 
Two angels came through the gate of Heaven, 

524. 
Two armies covered hill and plain, 264. 
Two loves had I. Now both are dead, 464. 
Two shall be born the whole wide world apart, 

636. 
Two things there are with Memory will abide, 

384. 
Tying her bonnet under her chin, 424. 

Unconquerably, men venture on the quest, 647. 

Under a spreading chestuut-tree, 114. 

Under a sultry, yellow sky, 259. 

Under a toadstool, 698. 

Under the apple bough, 537. 

Under the roots of the roses, 285. 

Under the shadows of a cliff, 670. 

Under the slanting light of the yellow sun of 

October, 368. 
Under the violets, blue and sweet, 198. 
Unflinching Dante of a later day, 645. 
Unhappy dreamer, who outwinged in flight, 

761. 
Unnoted as the setting of a star, 141. 
Unmoored, unmanned, unheeded on the deep, 

361. 
Untrammelled Giant of the West, 773. 
Unwarmed by any sunset light, 137. 
Up, Fairy ! quit thy chick-weed bower, 44. 
Upon a cloud among the stars we stood, 498. 
Upon my bier no garlands lay, 463. 



Upon my mantel-piece they stand, 743. 
Upon Nirwdna's brink the rihat stood, 718. 
Us two wuz boys when we fell out, 529. 

Vengeful across the cold November moors, 728. 
Venus has lit her sUver lamp, 692. 
Very dark the autumn sky, 697, 

Wake, Israel, wake ! Recall to-day, 519. 
Wake not, but hear me, love ! 678. 
WaU, no ! I can't tell whar he lives, 396. 
Warm, wild, rainy wind, blowing fitfully, 370. 
Was there another Spring than this ? 754. 
Was this his face, and these the finding eJes^ 

594. 
Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight 

undulations, 117. 
Way down upon de Swanee Ribber, 288. 
Weak-winged is song, 209. 
We are but two — the others sleep, 51. 
We are ghost-ridden, 639. 
We are our fathers' sons : let those who lead us 

know ! 726. 
We are the Ancient People, 398. 
We are two travellers, Roger and I, 292. 
Weary at heart with winter yesterday, 518. 
Weary, weary, desolate, 549. 
Weave no more silks, ye Lyons looms, 221. 
We break the glass, whose sacred wine, 81. 
We count the broken lyres that rest, 157. 
We follow where the Swamp Fox guides, 106. 
We gazed on Corryvrekin's whirl, 184. 
We had been long in mountain snow, 656. 
We have sent him seeds of the melon's core, 

710. 
We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so 

deep and still, 392. 
We lay us down to sleep, 357. 
Well, yes, sir, that am a comical name, 55i- . 
We must be nobler for our dead, be sure, 5o4. 
Were but my spirit loosed upon the air, 357, 
Were I a happy bird, 448. 
Were I transported to some distant star, 672. 
We sailed and sailed upon the desert sea, 387. 
We sail toward evening's lonely star, 370. 
We, sighing, said, " Our Pan is dead," 465. 
We summoned not the Silent Guest, 499, 
We took it to the woods, we two, 393. 
We were boys together, 82. 
We were not many — we who stood, 110. 
We were ordered to Samoa from the coast of 

Panama, 729. 
We were twin brothers, tall and hale, 485. 
We wondered why he always turned aside, 487. 
We wreathed about our darling's head, 250. 
What are the long waves singing so mournfully 

evermore? 300. 
What, are you hurt. Sweet ? So am I, 521. 
What bird is that, with voice so sweet, 485. 
What bring ye me, O camels, across the south- 
ern desert, 746. 
What can console for a dead world? 411. 
What, can these dead bones live, whose sap is 

dried, 520. 
What care I, what cares he, 452. 
What charlatans in this later day, 751. 
What, comrade of a night, 626. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



8S3 



What domes and pinnacles of mist and fire, 476. 

What dost thou here, 553. 

What ! dost thou pray that the outgone tide be 

rolled back on the strand, 575. 
What end the gods may have ordained for me, 

580. 
What fragrant-footed cottier, 648. 
What great yoked brutes with briskets low, 

428. 
What has become of the good ship Kite, 757. 
What if the Soul her real life elsewhere holds, 

574. 
What is a sonnet ? 'T is the pearly shell, 476. 
" What is it to be dead ? " Life, 582. 
What is the little one thinking about ? 234. 
What is there wanting in the Spring ? 550. 
What man is there so bold that he should say, 

395. 
What ! Roses on thy tomb ! and was there 

then, 674. 
What seek'st thou at this madman's pace ? 606. 
What shall her silence keep, 711. 
What shall we do now, Mary being dead, 238. 
What shall we mourn ? For the prostrate tree 

that sheltered the young greenwood ? 480. 
What 's love, when the most is said ? The flash 

of the lightning fleet, 449. 
What songs found voice upon those lips, 495. 
What 's the brightness of a brow ? 334. 
What strength ! what strife ! what rude unrest I 

427. 
What then, what if my lips do burn, 510. 
What though the green leaf grow ? 566. 
What time the earth takes on the garb of 

Spring, 627. 
What was my dream ? Though consciousness 

be clear, 430. 
What, what, what, 473. 
What win you give to a barefoot lass, 648. 
What wondrous sermons these seas preach to 

men! 736. 
When almond buds unclose, 629. 
When April rains make flowers bloom, 544. 
When calm is the night, and the stars shine 

bright, 15. 
Wlience come ye, Cherubs ? from the moon ? 22. 
Whence, O fragrant form of light, 489. 
W^len cherry flowers begin to blow, 739. 
When Darby saw the setting sun, 11. 
When Dorothy and I took tea, we sat upon the 

floor, 625. 
When dreaming kings, at .odds with swift-paced 

time, 660. 
Whenever a Kttle child is born, 587. 
Whenever a snowflake leaves the sky, 587. 
When first I looked into thy glorious eyes, 101. 
When first I saw her, at the stroke, 590. 
When Freedom from her mountain height, 46. 
When from the gloom of earth we see the sky, 

413. 
When from the vaulted wonder of the sky, 443. 
When I am standing on a mountain crest, 705. 
When I consider Life and its few years, 610. 
When I forth fare beyond this narrow earth, 

541. 
When I 'm in health and asked to choose, 753. 
When in my walks I meet some ruddy lad, 200. 



When in the first great hour of sleep supreme, 

576. _ 
When in thy glass thou studiest thy face, 465. 
When I was seventeen I heard, 503. 
When I went up the minster tower, 653. 
When late I heard the trembling cello play, 477. 
When leaves turn outward to the light, 449. 
When Love comes knocking at thy gate, 678. 
When love in the faint heart trembles, 595. 
When Love, our great Immortal, 691. 
When Nature had made all her birds, 172. 
When on my soul in nakedness, 572. 
When our babe he goeth walking in his gar- 
den, 527. 
When Psyche's friend becomes her lover, 449. 
When she comes home again ! A thousand ways, 

559. 
When souls that have put off their mortal gear, 

416. 
When stars pursue their solemn flight, 354. 
When sunshine met the wave, 662. 
When the grass shall cover me, 494. 
When the lessons and tasks are all ended, 471. 
When the reaper's task was ended, and the 

summer wearing late, 134. 
When the rose is brightest, 106. 
When the Sultan Shah-Zaman, 379. 
When the veil from the eyes is lifted, 338. 
When to soft sleep we give ourselves away, 383. 
When tulips bloom in Union Square, 545. 
When winds go organing through the pines, 710. 
When winter's cold tempests and snows are no 

more, 12. 
When wintry days are dark and drear, 488. 
When youth was lord of my unchallenged fate, 

311. 
Where all the winds were tranquil, 619. 
Where ancient forests round us spread, 29. 
Where broods the Absolute, 339. 
Wherefore these revels that my dull eyes greet? 

445. 
Where Helen comes, as falls the dew, 718. 
Where Helen sits, the darkness is so deep, 525. 
Where Hudson's wave o'er silvery sands, 83. 
Where in its old historic splendor stands, 755. 
Where 's he that died o' Wednesday ? 336. 
Where 's Peace ? I start, some clear-blown 

night, 209. 
Where now these mingled ruins lie, 5. 
Where swell the songs thou shouldst have sung, 

409. 
Where the graves were many, we looked for 

one, 376. 
Where were ye. Birds, that bless his name, 490. 
While I recline J?14. 

While now the Pole Star sinks from sight, 236. 
Whipp'will 's singin' to de moon, 680. 
White England shouldering fromi the sea, 644. 
White sail upon the ocean verge, 372. 
White sand and cedars ; cedars, sand, 525. 
Whither doth now this fellow flee? 763. 
Whither leads this pathway, little one ? 516, 
Whither, midst falling dew, 54. 
White wings of commerce sailing far, 442. 
Who are ye, spirits, that stand, 501. 
Who comes to England not to learn, 740. 
Who drives the horses of the sun, 515. 



854 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



Who has rohbed the ocean cave, 14. 

Who knows the thoughts of a child, 425. 

Who '11 have the crumpled pieces of a heart ? 

705. 
"Whom the gods love die young ;" — if gods 

ye be, 708. 
Who nearer Nature's life would truly come, 78. 
Whose furthest footstep never strayed, 703. 
Who tamed your lawless Tartar blood ? 429. 
Who will watch thee, little mound, 760. 
Why, Death, what dost thou hear, 306. 
Why dost thou hail with songful lips no more, 

659. 
Why here, on this third planet from the Sun, 

390. 
Why should I stay ? Nor seed nor fruit have I, 

490. 
Why shouldst thou cease thy plaintive song, 

616. 
Why should we waste and weep, 260. 
Why thus longing, thus for ever sighing, 296. 
Wide open and unguarded stand our gates, 380. 
Wild is its nature, as it were a token, 340. 
Wild Rose of Alloway ! my thanks, 39. 
Wild stream the clouds, and the fresh wind is 

singing, 355. 
Will there really be a morning ? 587. 
Wind of the City Streets, 599. 
Wind of the North, 632. 
With eyes hand-arched he looks into, 710. 
With oaken stafP and swinging lantern bright, 

521. 
With sails full set, the ship her anchor weighs, 

324. 
With saintly grace and reverent tread, 444. 
With wrath-flushed cheeks, and eyelids red, 

674. 
Winged mimirf of the woods ! thou motley fool ! 

27. 
Withdraw thee, soul, from strife, 627. 
Within a poor man's squalid home I stood, 387. 



Within his sober realm of leafless trees, 250, 
Within me are two souls that pity each, 505. 
Within my heart I long have kept, 635. 
Within this lowly grave a Conqueror Hes, 63. 
Within this silent palace of the Night, 651. 
Without him still this whirling earth, 608. 
Woe for the brave ship Orient ! 178, 
Woodman, spare that tree ! 82. 
Words, words, 745. 

Wouldst know the artist ? Then go seek, 668. 
Would the lark sing the sweeter if he knew, 463, 
Would you hear of the River-Fight? 245. 
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night, 526. 

Years have flown since I knew thee first, 475. 

" Yer know me little nipper," 764. 

Yes, death is at the bottom of the cup, 387. 

Yes, faith is a goodly anchor, 216. 

Yes, he was that, or that, as you prefer, 444. 

Yes, I have heard the nightingale, 476. 

Yes, I know what you say, 420. 

Ye smooth-faced sons of Jacob, hug close your 

ingleside, 758. 
Yes, stiU I love thee ! Time, who sets, 195. 
Yet, my friend — pale conjurer, I call, 631. 
Ye white Sicilian goats, who wander all, 770. 
Yon clouds that roam the deserts of the air, 

630. 
You ask a verse, to sing (ah, laughing face!) 

351. 
You ax about dat music made, 748. 
You gave me roses, love, last night, 582. 
You may drink to your leman in gold, 281, 
You know, my friends, with what a brave 

carouse, 443. 
Young to the end through sympathy with youth, 

637. 
Your heart is a music-box, dearest ! 170. 
You sang me a song, 773. 
You will come, my bird, Bonita ? 430. 
You who dread the cares and labors, 327. 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Abraham Lincoln B, H. Stoddard 282 

Absolution Watson 479 

Adelaide Neilson Winter 372 

Adonais Harney 323 

Adsum B. H. Stoddard 285 

After a Lecture on Keats Holmes 156 

After an Interval W. Whitman 232 

After-Comers, The B. T. S. Lowell 180 

After Death C. F. Bichardson 641 

After Music J. B. Feahody 747 

After-Song^ Gilder 478 

After the Burial J. B. Lowell 216 

. After Wings S.M.B. Piatt 374 

Agathon (extract) Woodherry 595 

Aged Stranger, The Harte 406 

Ahab Mohammed Legare 266 

Ah, be not false B. W. Gilder 477 

Ahmed Bensel 674 

Aidenn Trask 671 

Albatross C. W. Stoddard 446 

Alcyone .Mace 365 

Ahee Kay S. J. Hale 23 

Alicia's Bonnet E. C. Pullen 601 

All Quiet along the Potomac . .E.Ij. Beers 454 

AU 's weU H. McE. Kimhall 348 

Alma Mater's Boll E.E. Hale 307 

Alnwick Castle Halleck. 37 

Along Shore Bashford 736 

Alpheus and Arethusa Daly 768 

America Bryant 62 

America S. F. Smith 153 

America B. Taylor 272 

America (from " The Torch-Bearers ") 

A. Bates 533 

American Flag, The Drake 46 

American Girl, An Matthews 589 

America to England Woodherry 594 

America to Great Britain Allston 18 

Amy Legare 266 

Ancestry S. Crane 734 

Ancient of Days W. C. Doane 468 

Andalusian Sereno, The Saltus 521 

Andrew Parsons 239 

Andromeda T. B. Aldrich 383 

Andromeda Boche 498 

Angels Hall 700 

Angel's Song, The Sears 194 

Angler's Wish, An Van Dyke 545 

Annabel Lee Poe 151 

Anne Beese 609 

Anonymous Tabb 489 

Another Way Bierce 444 

Antiquity of Freedom, The Bryant 61 

Antony to Cleopatra Lytle 303 



Appeal to Harold, The H. C. Bunner 593 

Appreciation T. B. Aldrich 379 

April Auringer 518 

April Loveman 763 

April — and Dying A. B. Aldrich 719 

April Fantasie Cortissoz 555 

Arab Song B. H. Stoddard 282 

Arachne B. T. Cooke 289 

Arcana Sylvarum DeKay 509 

Ariana Sanborn 326 

Arid Lands, The Bashford 735 

Ariel in the Cloven Pine B. Taylor 271 

Armistice Jewett 693 

Armorer's Song, The H. B. Smith 679 

Army Correspondent's Last Ride 

G. A. Townsend 417 

Arraignment Cone 642 

Arrow and the Song, The 

H. W. Longfellow 115 

Art L.C. Perry 668 

Arthur Winter 372 

Artist, The Grissom 762 

Art Master, An CBeilly 480 

Art Thou the Same Tatnall 678 

As a Bell in a Chime B. U. Johnson 550 

Ashby J.B. Thompson 265 

Ashcake Page 558 

Ashes of Roses E. G. Eastman 701 

As I came down from Lebanon . . Scollard 658 

As I came down Mount Tamalpais. . Urmy 635 

Asleep ._ Winter 371 

Aspects of the Pines P. H. Hayne 317 

As some Mysterious Wanderer of the 

Skies.' Stockard 634 

As the Day breaks McGaffey 669 

Astraea Whittier 130 

At Best CBeilly 480 

At Chappaqua Benton 326 

At Gibraltar Woodherry 594 

At Last Trask 671 

At Lincoln O.F. Adams 653 

At Magnolia Cemetery Timrod 317 

At Marshfield (from " Webster : An 

Ode ") Wilkinson 451 

At Midnight Sherman 651 

At Night Montgomery 615 

At Set of Sun M. A. Townsend 330 

At Shakespeare's Grave I. Browne 359 

Attainment Tassin 767 

At the Grave of Walker J. Miller 427 

At the Hacienda Harte 403 

At the Mermaid Inn Hildreth 617 

At the Ninth Hour (from " God and 

the Soul ") J.L. Spalding 413 



856 



INDEX OF TITLES 



At the Shrine Munkittrick 551 

At Twilight Van Eensselaer 678 

Auf Wiedersehen J. E. Lowell 216 

Authority Huntington 390 

Autograph, An J. B. Lowell 218 

Autograph, An Whittier 141 

Autumn E. Dickinson 321 

Autumn Breeze, An W. H. Hayne 613 

Autumn in the West Gallagher 143 

Ave ! Nero Imperator Osborne 674 

Awakening Sangster 391 

Aztec City, The Ware 584 

Babie, The Eankin 296 

Baby -E". G. Eastman 701 

Babyhood Holland 234 

Bacehylides Whicker 675 

Balder's Wife Alice Gary 297 

Ballade of Dead Friends. .E. A. Eobinson 728 

Ballade of Islands, A L. Eobinson 696 

Ballad of Oriskany, The Auringer 517 

BaUad of Sir John Franklin, A . . . . Boker 261 

Ballad of the Faded Field. .E. B. Wilson 532 
Ballad of the French Fleet. A 

H. W. Longfellow 125 
Ballad of Trees and the Master, A 

Lanier 437 

Ballot, The Pierpont 34 

Band in the Pines, The J. E. Cooke 455 

Banjo of the Past, The Weeden 748 

Banner of the Jew, The Lazarus 519 

Barefoot Boy, The Whittier 130 

Baron's Last Banquet, The .A. G. Greene 80 

Barren Moors, The Channing 186 

Bartol A.B.Alcott 78 

Battle-Field, The Bryant 60 

Battle-Field, The .E. Dickinson 322 

Battle-Hymn of the Republic 

J. W. Howe 220 

Bayadere, The Saltus 522 

Beam of Light, A Eooney 718 

Beautiful, The Dorgan 364 

Becalmed Tabb 490 

Beclouded E. Dickinson 321 

Bedouins of the Skies, The Kenyon 630 

Bedouin Song B. Taylor 272 

Beds of Fleur-de-Lys, The. . C. P. Stetson 663 

Beer Arnold 345 

Before Sunrise in Winter Sill 419 

Before the Rain Troubetskoy 699 

Beggars E. Higginson 692 

Beginners W. Whitman 221 

Belated Violet, A .Herford 697 

Believe and take Heart . . .J. L. Spalding 411 

Bell, A Scollard 660 

Bells, The Poe 150 

Bells, The (from " Wishmaker's Town ") 

W. Young 506 

Bells of Lynn, The ....H. W. Longfellow 123 

Ben Bolt English 233 

Benedicite Brackett 367 

Bereaved Eiley 561 

Betrayal (from Song for " The Jaquerie ") 

Lanier 433 

Betrayal of the Rose. The ..E.M. Thomas 571 
Between the Sunken Sun and the New 

Moon P. H. Hayne 318 



Be ye in Love with April-tide ? . . Scollard 660 

Beyond H. P. Kimball 668 

Beyond Recall Bradley 364 

Bibliomaniac's Prayer, The Eugene Field 529 

Biftek aux Champignons PL. A. Beers 604 

Biglow Papers, The (extracts) 

J. E. Lowell 205 

Bill and Joe Holmes 158 

Birds E.H. Stoddard 280 

Birds of Bethlehem, The Gilder 478 

Birth Stillman 672 

Birth of Galahad, The (extract). . . .Hovey 705 

Bivouac of the Dead, The O Hara 248 

Bivouac on a Mountain Side 

W. Whitman 231 

Black Riders, The S. Crane 734 

Black Sheep Burton 645 

Blazing Heart, The Brotherton 501 

Blind Louise Dewey 198 

Blind Psalmist, The Kinney 168 

Blondel ^ Urmy 635 

Blossom of the Soul, The. .E. U. Johnson 551 

Blossom Time Larremore 600 

Blue and the Gray, The Finch 292 

Bluebeard's Closet E. T. Cooke 290 

Blue-Bird, The A. Wilson 12 . 

Blue HUls beneath the Haze 

C. G. Whiting 431 

Bobolinks, The Cranch 172 

Bondage Jennison 524 

Book, A E. Dickinson 320 

Book of Day-Dreams (extracts) 

C. L. Moore 570 

Bookra Warner 308 

Borrowed Child, The Weeden 749 

Bos'n HUl Albee 332 

Brahma Emerson 93 

Brave Old Ship, the Orient,, The 

E. T. S. Lowell 178 

Breath, A De Vere 449 

Breath of Hampstead Heath 

E. M. Thomas 573 
Bridal Pair, The (from " Wishmaker's 

Town ") W. Young 507 

Bride, The Bierce 443 

Bride's Toilette, The Cortissoz 556 

Bright Sparkles in de Churchyard 

(Negro Spiritual) 460 

Bring them not back Kenyon 631 

Brook, The Lord 243 

Brook, The (extract) Wright 394 

Brook Song Morse 425 

Brothers, The Sprague 51 

Browning at Asolo E. U. Johnson 551 

Bubble, The Tabb 490 

Bucket, The Woodworth 20 

Budding-Time too Brief Stein 694 

Building of the Ship, The (extract) 

H. W. Longfellow 119 

Bulb, A Munkittrick 552 

Burden of Love, The Jennison 524 

Burial of the Dane, The Brownell 247 

Burns Halleck 39 

But Once Winthrop 307 

Butterfly, The Jaines 732 

By the Pacific Bashford 735 

By the Pacific Ocean J. Miller 428 



INDEX OF TITLES 



^57 



Cacoethes Scribendi Holmes 161 

California T. L. Harris 260 

Called Back E. Dickinson 320 

Call of the Bugles, The Hovey 703 

Call on Sir Waiter Raleigh, A 

S. M. B. Piatt 376 

Calumny Osgood 170 

Camilla Keeler 758 

Candidate's Letter, The (from " The 

Biglow Papers "j J. B. Lowell 206 

Candlemas A. Brown 626 

Captain's Feather, The S. M. Peck 577 

Caravans J. P. Peahody 746 

Cardinal Bird, The Gallagher 142 

Care Cloud 657 

Carlyle and Emerson Schuyler 676 

Carmen Bellicosura McMaster 451 

Carpe Diem (from the " House of a 

Hundred Lights ") Torrence 753 

Catch, A B.H. Stoddard 281 

Cattle of his Hand, The Underwood 749 

Cavalry crossing a Ford W. Whitman 231 

Celestial Passion, The B. W. Gilder 475 

CeUo, The B. W. Gilder 477 

Centennial Hymn Whittier 140 

Challenge, A .Kenyon 630 

Chambered Nautilus, The Holmes 158 

Change W.B. Howells 386 

Changeling Grateful, A ... J. P. Peahody 745 

Changehngs M. T. Higginson 486 

Channing A. B. Alcott 77 

Chanting Cherubs, The Dana 22 

Chaperon, The H. C. Bunner 600 

Character Emerson 94 

Character, A C. F. Bates 399 

Charleston Timrod 316 

Chartless E. Dickinson 322 

Chaucer H. W. Longfellow 124 

Chez Brabant Durinage 201 

ChUd, A R.W. Gilder 477 

Child, The Tabb 490 

Child, The (from " Wild Eden ") 

Woodberry 592 

Child in the Street, The J.J. Piatt 351 

Child of To-day, A Buckham 673 

Children, The CM. Dickinson 471 

Children's Hour, The. .H. W. Longfelloiv 122 

Child's Question, A Nason 582 

Child's Wish, A Byan 403 

Child's Wish granted, The ..G.P. Lathro]} 537 

Chiquita Harte 403 

Choice E. Dickinson 321 

Choir Practice Crosby 620 

Christine J. 'Hay 396 

Christmas Carol, A Holland 235 

Christmas Night of '62 McCabe 421 

Chrysalis, A Bradley 363 

Circumstance T. B. Aldrich 384 

City in the Sea, The Poe 147 

City of God, The S. Johnson 254 

Classical Criticism G. L. Bichardson 768 

Cleopatra Story 218 

Clerks, The E. A. Bobinson 728 

' Clock's Song, The B.H. Lathrop 540 

Cloistered A. Brown 626 

Closing Scene, The T. B. Bead 250 

Clouds, The Croswell 192 



Clover Tabb 489 

Clover, The Deland 624 

Clue, The C. F. Bates 400 

Coasters, The T. F. Day 756 

Cocoa-Tree, The C. W. Stoddard 446 

Coeur de Lion to Berengaria Tilton 362 

Coleridge Hellman 755 

College Colonel, The Melville 235 

College Verse, Recent 765 

Col. Trumbull's " The Declaration of 
Independence " (from " The Na- 
tional Paintings ") Drake 46 

Columbus J. Miller 426 

Columbus Sigourney 47 

Come back Herbert 196 

Come Love or Death . . . W. H. Thompson 509 

Come slowly. Paradise Kenyon 631 

Commemoration Ode (extracts) . . . Monroe 660 

Common Inference, A C. P. Stetson 663 

Common Sense J.T. Fields 182 

Compensation Collier 467 

Compensation (from " The House of a 

Hundred Lights ") Torrence 752 

Comradery Caivein 710 

Comrades Blood 391 

Conceits A. Bates 534 

Conclusion of the Whole Matter, The 
(from " The House of a Hundred 

Lights ") Torrence 753 

Concord Hymn Emerson 100 

Condemned, The Howland 466 

Conjecture, A C. F. Bichardson 541 

Conquered Banner, The Byan 402 

Conqueror's Grave, The Bryant 63 

Conqueror Worm, The Poe 149 

Consejence-Keeper, The (from "Wish- 
maker's Town ") W. Young 507 

Conservative, A C. P. Stetson 663 

Constant E. Dickinson 321 

Content S. Crane 734 

Contrast, The Cone 643 

Coral Grove, The Percival 70 

Corda Concordia (extract) Stedman 339 

Corn-Song, A Dunbar 737 

Coronation Jackson 324 

Cotton Boll, The Timrod 314 

Countrywoman of Mine, A 

E. G. Eastman 700 

Coup de Grace, The Sill 420 

Courtin', The (from "The Biglow 

Papers ") J. B. Lowell 207 

Cowboy, The Antrobus 452 

Cranes of Ibycus, The Lazarus 519 

Creation Bierce 444 

Creek-Road, The Cawein 710 

Creole Slave-Song, A M. Thompson 485 

Cressid N. Perry 423 

Crew Poem, A Blount 768 

Crossed Swords, The Frothingham 86 

Crossing Brooklyn Ferry (extract) 

W. Whitman 226 

Crossing the Plains J. Miller 428 

Crossing the Tropics Melville 236 

Cross of Gold, The Gray 378 

Crotalus Harte 404 

Crowing of the Red Cock, The. . .Lazarus 520 

Crowned Poet, A A. B. Aldrich 719 



8s8 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Cry from the Shore, A Cortissoz 

Crystal, The Coan 

Culprit Fay, The (extracts) Drake 

Cumberland, The H. W. Longfellow 

Curfew H. W. Longfellow 

Curiosity (extracts) Sprague 

Cyclamen, The A. Bates 

Cyclone at Sea, A W. H. Hayne 

Daffodils Reese 

Dalliance of the Eagles, The 

W. Whitman 

Dancer, The E.P.C. Hayes 

Dancing Fawn, The Rogers 

Dancing Girl, A Osgood 

Dandelions Albee 

Daniel Gray Holland 

Dante H. W. Longfelloio 

Darby and Joan Honeywood 

Darest thou now, Soul. . . . W. Whitman 

Darkness Rosenberg 

D'Artaguan's Ride Morris 

Dartmouth Winter-Song Hovey 

Daughter of Mendoza, The Lamar 

Dawning o' the Year, The Blake 

Day of Atonement, The (extract) . . Leiser 

Days Emerson 

Days of my Youth Tucker 

Dead, The Very 

Dead in the Sierras J. Miller 

Dead Love M. M. Adams 

Dead Moon, The Dandridge 

Dead Player, The R. B. Wilson 

Dead Singer, The M. A. Townsend 

Dead Soldier, A Montgomery 

Dead Solomon, The Dorgan 

Deaf H. C. Runner 

Death Caivein 

Death Pellew 

Death and Night Kenyon 

Death at Daj^break A. R. Aldrich 

Death-Bed, A J. Aldrich 

Deathless, The E.P.C. Hayes 

Death of Azron, The Rollins 

Death of Grant, The Bierce 

Death of Minnehaha, The (from " The 
Song of Hiawatha "). fl^. W. Longfellow 

Death of Slavery, The Bryant 

Death of the Flowers, The Bryant 

Death's Epitaph Freneau 

Death Song, A Bunhar 

Decanter of Madeira, age 86, to 
George Bancroft, aged 86, Greeting, 

A S. M.Mitchell 

Decay of a People, The Simms 

Decoration T. W. Higginson 

Deep, Tlie J. G. C. Brainard 

Deep Waters Sutjihen 

De Fust Banjo Russell 

Delay C. F. Bates 

Democracy (from the " Commemora- 
tion Ode ") Monroe 

Demon-Lover, The (from "Hadad ") 

J. A. Hillhouse 

Departed, The Tabb 

Departure M. R. Smith 

DereHct E. C. Pullen 



556 
423 

42 
123 
116 

50 
533 
613 

609 

230 
751 
689 
169 
333 
233 
115 

11 
232 
766 
765 
705 

88 
461 
747 

96 

10 
174 
429 
464 
639 
531 
329 
614 
364 
597 
709 
649 
630 
720 
197 
751 
499 
443 

119 

66 

57 

4 

738 



313 
107 
268 
75 
759 
568 
400 

661 

24 
489 
441 
602 



Derelict, The Foote 

De Sheepfol' S. P. McL. Greene 

Despair R. H. Lathrop 

Destiny H. S. Morris 

Diamond, A Loveman 

Dibdin's Ghost Eugene Field 

Dies IrsB Coles 

Dinkey-Bird, The Eugene Field 

Dirge Cawein 

Dirge Eastman 

Dirge Parsons 

Dirge for a Soldier Boker 

Disappointment Collier 

Disarmed Searing 

Discoverer, The Stedman 

Disenchantment (from the " Book of 

Day-Dreams ") C. L. Moore 

Distinction M. A. DeW. Howe 

Divan, The R. H. Stoddard 

Divided Gray 

Divine Awe (from " Wild Eden ") 

Woodberry 

Dixie Pike 

Does the Pearl know ? H. Hay 

Donald A bbev 

Done For R. T. Cooke 

Don Juan Foote 

Don Quixote Betts 

Doors, The Mifflin 

Dorothy R. H. Lathrop 

Dorothy Q Holmes 

Doubt _ Rogers 

" Doves of Venice, The " Hutton 

Down a Woodland Way M. Howells 

Down the Bayoii M. A. Townsend 

Do you fear the Wind ? Garland 

Dream, A Kinney 

Dreaming in the Trenches McCabe 

Dream of Death, A Jennison 

Dream of Flowers, A Coan 

Drifting T.B. Read 

Drifting Petal, A M. M. Fenollosa 

Driving Home the Cows K. P. Osgood 

Drop of Ink, A J. E. Whitney 

Drowned Mariner, The E. O. Smith 

Druid, The Tabb 

Dryad Song Fuller 

Duality Hardy 

Dum Vivimus Vigilemus Webb 

Dust, The. . .■ _ Halt 

Dwainie (from "The Flying Islands of 

the Night ") Riley 

Each and All Emerson 

Eagle of the Blue, The Melville 

Eagle's Fall. The C. G. Whiting 

Early Bluebird, An M. Thompson 

Early News Pratt 

Earth, The Emerson 

Ebb and Flow G.W. Curtis 

Ecce in Deserto. H. A. Beers 

Echoes from the Sabine Farm (extracts) 

Eugene Field 

Eclipse of Faith, The T.D. Woolsey 

Edith Channing 

Egotism. . ■ Martin > 

Egyptian Lotus, The Eaton 



361 

635 
539 
617 
763 
529 
193 
528 
711 
197 
238 
264 
467 
465 
333 

570 
708 
281 
378 

591 
165 
754 
442 
291 
361 
552 
497 
539 
160 
690 
472 
743 
330 
65(i 
168 
422 
523 
422 
252 
73£ 
45S 

CM 

m 
m 

77' 

5^. 
34;/ 

7C, 

m 



23- 
43j 
484 
58J 
91 
30f 
501 

53( 

18' 
60( 

57; 



INDEX OF TITLES 



859 



•' Ej Blot Til Lyst " W. M. Payne 

El Capitan-General Leland 

Electra Williams 

Elegiac Percival 

Elf and the Dormouse, The Herford 

Elfin SoDg (from " The Culprit Fay ") 

Drake 

El Vaquero Foote 

Embryo M. A. Townsend 

Emerson A. B. Alcott 

Emerson M. M. Dodge 

Emigravit Jackson 

Enamoured Architect of Airy Rhyme 

T. B. Aldrich 

End, The Rice 

Endymion H. W. Longfellow 

En Garde, Messieurs Lindsey 

England Channing- Stetson 

England R. E. Day 

England Montgomery 

Enviable Isles, The Melville 

Envoy (to "More Songs from Vaga- 

bondia ") Hovey 

Envoy. S.M. B. Piatt 

Epicedium Trauhel 

Epilogue at Wallack's, An Wayland 

Epilogue to the Breakfast-Table Series 

Holmes 
Epitaph (from " The Fading Rose ") 

Freneau 

Epithalamium. J. G. C. Brainard 

Eternal Goodness, The Whittier 

Eternal Justice, The A. R. Aldrich 

Eternity E. Dickinson 

Et Mori Lucrum (from ' ' God and the 

Soul ") J. L. Spalding 

. Europa S. H. Thayer 

E'ltaw Springs Freneau 

Evanescence Spofford 

Evangeline (extracts) . . .H. W. Longfellow 

Evangeline in Acadie (from " Evangeline ") 

H. W. Longfellow 

' Evelyn R. Johnson 

Evening G. W. Doane 

Evening Hymn Furness 

Evening in Tyringham Valley 

R. W. Gilder 

! E- ening Revery, An (extract) Bryant 

• Y 'ening Songs Cheney 

I E', oning Wind, The -Bryant 

F 'ery one to his own Way Cheney 

E jlution Tahb 

E hortation Hastings 

J hortation to Prayer Mercer 

E ile at Rest, The Pierpont 

Exiles W. H. Hayne 

Experience Wharton 

" Extras " Burton 

Fa ble for Critics, A (extract) 
' J. R. Lowell 

Fair England Cone 

Faith. R. Palmer 

Faith's Vista Abbey 

Faith Trembling De Vere 

Falcon, The R. H. Stoddard 

Fallow Field, The Dorr 



627 
269 
483 
70 
698 

45 
361 
331 

77 
393 
324 

382 
688 
114 
638 
740 
543 
613 
237 

703 
377 
639 
677 

159 

3 

76 
135 
720 
322 

412 
407 
3 
354 
116 

116 

409 

76 

90 

476 

60 

515 

58 

515 

489 

19 

85 

34 

613 

762 

646 



205 
644 
153 
443 
448 
282 
275 



Falstaff's Song Stedman 336 

Fame Tabb 490 

Far Cry to Heaven, A E. M. Thomas 575 

Farewell, A De Vere 448 

Farewell, A Monroe 662 

Farewell, The Whittier 128 

Farewell to America, A Wilde 27 

Farewell to Cuba M. G. Brooks 73 

Farewell to Summer Arnold 344 

Far-off Rose, A J. P. Peabody 747 

Farragut Meredith 457 

Farther J. J. Piatt 350 

Fate Block 565 

Fate 6'. M. Spalding 636 

Fay's Sentence, The (from " The 

Culprit Fay ") Drake 42 

Fear. ._ L. E. Mitchell 686 

Feminine H. C. Bunner 599 

Ferry, The Boker 263 

Fiat Lux Mifflin 498 

Fickle Hope H. S. Morris 620 

Fiction (from " Curiosity ") Sprague 50 

Fight at the San Jacinto, The 

J. W. Palmer 277 
Fighting Race, The. ......J.I.C. Clarke 547 

Finding of Gabriel, The (from " Evan- 
geline ") H. W. Longfellow 118 

Fire i' the FKnt, The L. Robinson 696 

Firelight (from "Snow-Bound") 

Whittier 137 
First Quest, The (from " The Culprit 

Fay ") Drake 43 

First Snow-Fail, The J. R. Lowell 215 

First Song, The Burton 645 

First Step, The Saxton 672 

Fisherman's Hymn, The A. Wilson 12 

Fisher's Boy. The Thoreau 182 

Flag goes by. The H. H. Bennett 756 

Fledglings T. L. Harris 260 

Flight Cawein 711 

Flight, The Mifflin 498 

Flight from the Convent, The filton 362 

Flight of the Arrow, The 

R. H. Stoddard 286 

Flight of the Heart, The Goodale 111 

Flight of the War-Eagle, The. . .Auringer 516 

Flight of Youth, The R. H. Stoddard 281 

Flight Shot, A M. Thompson 485 

Flood of Years, The Bryant 67 

Flood -Time on the Marshes Stein 695 

Florence Vane P. P. Cooke 197 

Flower-Seller, The (from " Wish maker's 

Town ") W. Young 606 

Flown Soul, The G. P. Lathrop 536 

Flute, The J. R. Tai/lor 723 

Flying Fish M. M. Fenollosa 739 

Flying Islands of the Night (extract) 

Riley 563 

Fool's Prayer, The Sill 419 

Footnote to a Famous Lyric, A. . . . Guiney 666 

Forbearance Emerson 94 

Force _ Sill 420 

For Decoration Day Hughes 736 

Forefather, The Burton 64G 

Forepledged J. L. Spalding 412 

Forerunners Emerson 93 

Forest Hymn, A Bryant 55 



86o 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Forgiven ? GiUespy 767 

Forgiveness Lane M. G. Dickinson 714 

Forgiveness of Sins, a Joy unknown to 

Angels A. L. Hillhouse 86 

For Sale, a Horse C. E. Taylor 768 

Forthfaring W. Howells 701 

Fortunate One, The .Monroe 662 

Four-Leaf Clover JE. Higginson 692 

Four Things Van Dyke 647 

Four Winds, The Luders 632 

Fraternity ; A. R. Aldrich 719 

Freedom for the Mind. . . . W. L. Garrison 102 

Friend and Lover De Vere 449 

Fringed Gentian E. Dickinson 321 

Fringilla Melodia, The Hirst 175 

From Generation to Generation 

W. D. Howells 386 

Frost E.M. Thomas 574 

Fruitionless Coolhrith 495 

Fugitive Slave's Apostrophe to the 

North Star, The Pierpont 33 

Funeral of Time, The Hirst 176 

Garden and Cradle .Eugene Field 527 

Garden where there is no Winter, The 

Block 564 

Garrison A. B. Alcott 79 

Gazelle, A R. H. Stoddard 286 

General's Death, The J. O' Connor 431 

Genesis Ingham 652 

Genius E. A. White 714 

Gentian E. G. Crane 772 

George Washington Ingham 652 

Georgia Volunteer, A ... M. A. Townsend 331 

Geronimo McGaffey 670 

Ghost-Flowers M. T. Higginson 487 

Ghosts Munkittrick 551 

Gift of Water, The Garland 655 

Gifts of God, The Very 175 

Gil, the Toreador Wehb 342 

Girl of Pompeii, A Martin 608 

Give me not Tears .R. H. Lathrop 539 

Give me the Splendid Silent Sun 

W. Whitman 225 

Gloucester Harbor E. S. P. Ward 482 

God and the Soul (extracts) J. L. Spalding 412 

God bless you. Dear, to-day ! . . J. Bennett 712 

God keep you De Vere 449 

God save the Nation Tilton 361 

God's Will Munger 767 

Golden Age, The E.F. Fenollosa 585 

Golden-Robin's Nest, The Chadwick 416 

Gold-of-Ophir Roses Dennen 771 

Gold-Seekers, The Garland 656 

Good-By, A E.P.C. Hayes 751 

Go sleep, ma Honey Barker 680 

Grand Ronde Valley, The . .E. Higginson 692 
Grave in Hollywood Cemetery, Rich- 
mond, A Preston 287 

Graveyard Rabbit, The Stanton 623 

Green Isle of Lovers, The Sands 89 

Greeting of the Roses, The Garland 656 

Grizzly Harte 404 

Guerdon, The J. J. Piatt 351 

Guest, '^he H. McE. Kimball 348 

Guilie. Rex T. B. Aldrich 381 

Gulf St. 1 S.C. Woolsey 491 



Habeas Corpus Jackson 

Hadad (extract) J, A, Hillhouse 

Hail Columbia Hopkinson 

Hand of Lincoln, The Stedman 

Handsel Ring, The Houghton 

Happiest Heart, The Cheney 

Harlequin of Dreams, The Lanier 

Harold the Valiant Stebbins 

Harriet Beecher Stowe Dunbar 

Harvest Cortissoz 

Hast thou heard the Nightingale ? 

B. W. Gilder 

Haunted Palace, The Poe 

Haunts of the Halcyon, The Luders 

Hawthorne A. B. Alcott 

Health, A Pinkney 

Health at the Ford, A Rogers 

" Heart of all the Scene, The " (from 

" Woodnotes ") Emerson 

Heart of Oak Luders 

Heart's Summ^er, The E. Sargent 

Heart, we will forget him 

E. Dickinson 

Heaven M. J. Dickinson 

Heaven, Lord, I cannot lose. . . .Proctor 
Heavens are our Riddle, The . . .H. Bates 

Heaven's Magnificence Muhlenberg 

Heaviest Cross of all. The Conway 

Hebe J. R. Lowell 

He came too late Bogart 

He 'd nothing but his Violin Dallas 

Height of the Ridiculous, The .... Holmes 

Helen Valentine 

Helen S. C. Woolsey 

Helen Hunt Jackson Coolbrith 

Helen Keller Stedman 

Helios Spingarn 

Heliotrope H. T. Peck 

He made us Free Egan 

Henry Ward Beecher C. H. Phelps 

Her Answer J. Bennett 

Heredity T.B. Aldrich 

Her Epitaph Parsons 

Her Horoscope M. A. Townsend 

Her Music M. J. Dickinson 

Heroes (from " The Song of Myself ") 

W. W^hitman 

Heroic Age, The Gilder 

Hero of the Commune, The Preston 

Her Picture Cortissoz 

Her Shadow E.G. Pullen 

He who hath loved Malone 

Hey Nonuy No Merington 

Hie Jacet Moulton 

" Hie Me, Pater Optime, Fessani Deseris" 
L. Robinson 

Higher Good, The Parker 

High Tide at Gettysburg, The 

W. H. Thompson 

His Majesty T. Brown 

His Mother's Joy Chadwick 

His Quest Tooker 

His Statement of the Case Morse 

Holiday, A Reese 

Hollyhock, A Sherman 

HoUyhocks, The Betts 

Home, Sweet Home ! J. H. Payne 



INDEX OF TITLES 



86 1 



Horaeward Bound (from " Wild Eden ") 

Woodberry 591 

Homing, The Eooney 717 

Honey dripping- from the Comh Riley 563 

Hope W.B. Howells 387 

Hcrace J. O. Sargent 200 

Hound, The (from " Song for the 

Jaquerie ") Lanier 434 

Hour of Peaceful Rest, The Tappan 87 

House of a Hundred Lights, The (ex- 
tracts) Torrence 752 

House of Night, The (extract) . . . .Freneau 4 

House on the HiU, The . . .E. A. Bobinson 729 

Hudson, The Hellman 755 

Human Plan, The Crandall 631 

Hurable-Bee, The Emerson 92 

Hundred- Yard Dash, The Lindsey 638 

Hunt, The Spofford 355 

Hunter of the Prairies, The Bryant 59 

Hymn Dunbar 738 

Hymn for the Dedication of a Church 

Norton 29 

Hymn of the Earth Channing 186 

Hymn of Trust Holmes 159 

Hymn to the Night R. W. Longfellow 111 

Icarus Koopman 653 

Ichabod Whittier 129 

I count my Time by Times that I meet 

Thee Gilder 475 

Ideal, The Saltus 523 

Identity T.B. Aldrich 380 

Idleness S. W. Mitchell 313 

Idler, The Very 173 

I Explain S. Crane ' TS4: 

If W.D. Howells 387 

If all the Voices of Men. . ._ Traubel^ 639 

I fear no Power Woman wields . McGa^ey 670 

If I but knew Leigh 678 

" If Spirits walk " Jewett 693 

If still they live (from " The Inverted 

Torch ") E.M. Thomas 576 

I. H. B Winter 373 

Ike Walton's Prayer Biley 561 

I know not why Bosenfeld 772 

Immortal Flowers Bice 688 

Immortality Dana 21 

Immortality Hardy 506 

Immortality Beese 610 

Immutabilis A. L. Bunner 673 

Implora Pace Hildreth 616 

In a China Shop Hellman 768 

In a Copy of Omar Khayydm .J.B. Lowell 215 

In a Garret Allen 328 

Incipit Vita Nova W.M. Payne 627 

In Clonrael Parish Churchyard 

S. M. B. Piatt 376 

Incognita of Raphael Butler 306 

In dat Great Gittin'-up Mornin' 

(Negro Spiritual) 459 

In Death Bradley 363 

India Coates 535 

Indian Burying-Ground, The . . . .Freneau 4 

Indian Summer Tabb 490 

Indian's Welcome to the Pilgrim 

Fathers, The Sigourney 48 

Indirection Bealf 343 



Li Earliest Spring W.D. Howells 386 

Inevitable, The Bolton 467 

In Explanation Learned 503 

Infallibility Collier 467 

Infinity P.H. Savage 725 

Infinity (from " The Song of Myself ") 

W. Whitman 224 

In Galilee .Butts 468 

In Hades Srackett 367 

In Harbor P.H. Hayne 319 

Inheritance M. T. Higginson 487 

In Leinster Guiney 665 

In Louisiana Paine 669 

In Memory of General Grant Abbey 442 

In Memory of John Lothrop Motley 

Bryant 67 

In Mexico Stein 695 

In November A. R. Aldrich 718 

In Paradise A. Bates 533 

In Rama G. A. Townsend 418 

In School-Days Whittier 139 

In Sleep Burton 647 

Insomnia E. M. Thomas 575 

In Sorrow Hastings 19 

Inspiration S. Johnson 254 

Inspiration Thoreau 182 

In State (extract) . . _. F. Willson 389 

International Copyright J. R. Lowell 2lS . 

International Episode, An Duer 729 

In Tesla's Laboratory B. U. Johnson 550 

In the Beginning Monroe 662 

In the Dark Bushnell 346 

In the Dark M. T. Higginson 486 

In the Firelight Eugene Field 527 

In the Grass Garland 654 

In the Old Churchyard at Fredericksburg 

Loring 583 

In the " Old South " Whittier 140 

In the Still, Star-lit Night ...E. Stoddard 258 

In the Twilight J. B. Lowell 21' 

In Time of Grief Beese 61! 

Into the Noiseless Country Parsons 23! ■ 

In Vain B. T. Cooke 29;: 

Inverted Torch, The (extracts) 

E. M. Thomas 57Q 

Invocation Stedman 330 

In Youth Stein 69' 

lona Coxe 18 

lo Victis Story 21 

Ireland J. J. Piatt 35 

Irish Wild-Flower, An . . . .S. M. B. Piatt 31 

Iron Gate, The (extract) Holmes It 

I served in a Great Cause Traubel 638 

Isolation J. P. Peabody 74„ 

Israfel Poe 148 

Iter Supremum Hardy 506 

It is in Winter that we dream, of Spring 

B. B. Wilson 531 

It is not Death to die Bethune 192 

I would not live alway Muhlenberg 74 

Jack and Gill Morgridge 473 

James McCosh Bridges 637 

Jar, The B. H. Stoddard 282 

J.B H. C.Bun-'*r, 599 

Jeannie Marsh G.P. Mo, . ' / 84 

Jesus Parker 166 



862 



INDEX OF TITLES 



" Jim " -Harte 405 

Jim Bludso of the Prairie Belle (from 

" Pike County Ballads ") J. Hay 396 

John Bright Gummere 595 

John Brown Koopman 653 

John Pelham Randall 401 

Joined the Blues Booney 716 

Journey, The .Hansbrough 769 

Joy B. H. Lathrop 539 

Joy Enough B. Eastman 725 

Joy of the Morning Markham 543 

Juanita ./. Miller 430 

Judgment Channing-Stetson 740 

Judgment, The Goodale 722 

Judgment Day W. D. Howells 387 

Judith W. Young 508 

Jugurtha -H. W. Longfellow 125 

Jujie Bryant 56 

Kearny at Seven Pines Stedman 335 

Kearsarge, The Boche 498 

Keats (from an " Ode to England ") . Lord 243 

Keats Beese 612 

Keenan's Charge G. P. Lathrop 538 

Kelpius's Hymn A. Peterson 582 

Kentucky Babe Buck 681 

Khamsin Scollard 659 

Kitty's Laugh A. Bates 534 

Kitty's "No" A. Bates 534 

Kol Nidra (from " The Day of Atone- 
ment ") Leiser 747 

Kree Gordon 606 

Ku Klus Cawein 710 

La Grisette Holmes 155 

Lake Superior Goodrich 87 

Lament of aMocking-Bird Kemble 163 

Lament of Anastasius . .W.B.O. Peabody 76 

Lamp, The S.P. McL. Greene 634 

Lamp in the West, The E. Higginson 692 

Landor '. Albee 332 

Last Bowstrings, The E. A. White 712 

Last Cup of Canary, The Cone 643 

Last Days E. Stoddard 259 

Last Fight, The Tooker 604 

Last Furrow, The Markham 542 

Last Good-By, The Moulton 357 

Last Hunt, The W. B. Thayer 640 

Last Landlord, The Allen 327 

Last Leaf, The Holmes 154 

l^ast Prayer, A Jackson 325 

Last Reservation, The Learned 502 

Latter Day, The Hastings 19 

I,,i.urana's Song Hovey 705 

llaura Sleeping ... Moulton 356 

Laus Veneris Moulton 356 

Leaves at my Window J. J. Piatt 351 

Leaves of Grass (from " The Song of 

Myself") W. Whitman 222 

Lenore Poe 147 

Les Morts vont vite H. C. Bunner 598 

Liberty J. Hay 395 

Liberty for All W. L. Garrison 102 

Library, The Sherman 650 

Life A. Brown 626 

Life E. Dickinson 320 

Life and Death L. C. Perry 667 



Life-Lesson, A Biley 

Life on the Ocean Wave, A . . . E. Sargent 

Light'ood Fire, The Boner 

" Like as the Lark " Parsons 

Like to a Coin A. Bates 

Lily of Yorrow, The Van Dyke 

Lincoln (from the " Commemoration Ode") 

Monroe 
Lincoln's Grave (extract) . . .M. Thompson 

Linen Bands V. Thompson 

Lines to a Blind Girl T. B. Read 

Lion's Cub, The M. Thompson 

Lip and the Heart, The . . . . J. Q. Adams 

Use R. T. Cooke 

Little Alabama Coon Starr 

Little Beach-Bird, The Dana 

Little Boy Blue Eugene Field 

Little Boy's Vain Regret, A 

E. M. Thomas 
Little Breeches (from " Pike County 

Ballads") J. Hajy 

Little Brother of the Rich, A Martin 

Little Child, The Paine 

Little Dutch Garden, A W. Whitney 

Little Elf, The Bangs 

Little Giffeii Ticknor 

Little Guinever A. Fields 

Little Knight in Green, The. K. L. Bates 

Little Nipper an' 'is Ma Gouraud 

Little Orphant Annie Biley 

Little Parable, A A. R. Aldrich 

Little Theocritus Paradise 

Little Way, A Stanton 

Little while I fain would linger yet, A 

P. H. Hayne 

Little Wild Baby Janvier 

Living Book, The C. F. Bates 

Living Memory, A Croffut 

Living Temple, The Holmes 

Lohengrin W. M. Payne 

Lonely-Bird, The. H. S. Morris 

"Lonely Bugle grieves. The" (from 
" An Ode on the Celebration of the 
Battle of Bunker Hill, June 17, 

1825 ") Mellen 

Longfellow Biley 

Long Night, The H. B. Smith 

Look into the Gulf, A Markham 

Loon, The Street 

Lost Colors, The E. S. P. Ward 

Lost Genius, The J.J. Piatt 

Lost Pleiad, The Simms 

Louisa May Alcott Moulton 

Love Dickinson 

Love Trask 

Love and Death Deland 

Love and Life Lippmann 

Love and Poverty E.G. Pullen 

Love and Time Lloyd 

Love in the Winds Hovey 

Love is Strong Burton 

Love-Knot, The N. Perry 

Lover's Song, The Sill 

Lover, The R. H. Stoddard 

Love's Change A. R. Aldrich 

Love's Kiss H.Hay 

Love's Prayer 



560 

177 
488 
241 

66( 

m 

69] 

25!; 
48c 

i:: 

29( 
68( 

2: 

5^) 

58: 

39' 

60: 

66' 

68 

69 

25 

34' 

64 

7(i 

m 

77 



INDEX OF TITLES 



863 



Love's Resurrection Day Moulton 358 

Love's Rosary Woodherry 695 

Loves she like me Woodworth 20 

Love's Wisdom Deland 624 

Love to the Church Dwight 10 

Love Unchangeable Dawes 195 

Love Unsought Embury 195 

Luke Havergal E. A. Robinson 727 

Lullaby Holland 588 

Lydia Reese 609 

Lyttel Boy, The Eugene Field 528 

Madame Hickory Larremore 600 

Madrono Harte 407 

Making of Man, The Chadwick 415 

Man and Nature Weeks 415 

Man by the Name of Bolus, A Riley 563 

Man in Nature W. R. Thayer 641 

Mannahatta W. Whitman 226 

Manor Lord, The Houghton 526 

Man's Pillow I. Browne 360 

' . 'Ian who frets at Worldly Strife, The 

Drake 47 

Man with the Hoe, The Markham 541 

Man with the Hoe, The Cheney 586 

Many things thou hast given me. Dear 

Heart Rollins 500 

March Loveman 763 

March Webb 342 

Marco Bozzaris Halleck 36 

Margaret Fuller A. B. Alcott 78 

Mariposa LUy, The Coolbrith 495 

'• Mark " McGaffey 670 

larshes of Glynn, The Lanier 435 

dartyr's Memorial Guiney 665 

Mary Booth Parsons 238 

Maryland Battalion, The ..J. W. Palmer 278 

Masks r. ^. Aldrich 384 

Massasauga, The '. . Garland 655 

Massa 's in de Cold Ground Foster 289 

Master's Invitation, The Randolph 297 

' ' Master Sky-Lark, " Songs from 

J. Bennett 711 

IMaud MuUer Whittier 131 

Maurice de Gu^rin Egan 543 

May 30, 1893 Bangs 693 

Mayflower O'Reilly 481 

Mayflower, The Ellsworth 256 

May Morning _. Thaxter 370 

May Sun sheds an Amber Light, The 

Bryant 63 

Meadow Lark, The Garland 654 

Medusa Weeks 414 

Meeting after Long Absence (as she 

feared it would be) L. C. Perry 667 

Meeting after Long Absence (as it 

was) L. C. Perry 667 

Memnon Scollard 659 

ISIemorials Melville 236 

Memories T. B. Aldrich 384 

Memories Prentice 84 

Memory T. B. Aldrich 384 

Men behind the Guns, The Rooney 717 

Men of the North Neal 52 

Mercedes E. Stoddard 259 

Merlin Emerson 94 

Mel 'links the Measure Hutchison 766 



Midsummer Trowbridge 

Midwinter Trowbridge 

" Mighty Heart, The " (from " Wood- 
notes ") Emerson 

Million Little Diamonds, A Butts 

Milton H. W. Longfellow 

Milton ._ Miffiin 

Milton's Prayer of Patience ■ .E.L. Howell 

Mint Julep, The Hoffman 

Miss Nancy's Gown Cocke 

Mist Thoreau 

Miyoko San M. M. Fenollosa 

Mocking-Bird, The E.P.C. Hayes 

Mocking-Bird, The Lanier 

Mocking-Bird, The Stanton 

Mocking-Bird, The Stockard 

Modern Romans, The C. F. Johnson 

Mohammed and Seid H. S. Morris 

Mon-Goos, The Herford 

Montetiore Bierce 

Monterey Hoffman 

Mood, A W. Howells 

Mood, A Troubetskoy 

Moonlight in Italy Kinney 

Moonlight Song of the Mocking-Bird 

W. H. Hayne 

Moonrise Sherman 

Moonrise in the Rockies . . . .E. Higginson 

Moral in Sevres, A M. Howells 

Morgan Stedman 

Moritura Davidson 

Morn Jackson 

Morning E. Dickinson 

Morning P. H. Savage 

Morning Fancy M. M. Fenollosa 

Morning-Glory, The M. W. Lowell 

Morning in Camp Bashford 

Mors Benefica Stedman 

Mors et Vita R. H. Stoddard 

Mortifying Mistake, A Pratt 

Moss suppiicateth for the Poet, The . Dana 

Mother England E. M. Thomas 

Mother (from " Snow-Bound "). . Whittier 

Mother Goose Sonnets Morgridqe 

Mother's Song, The Cloud 

Mother who died too. The .E. M. Thomas 

Moth-Song Cortissoz 

Mountain to the Pine, The Hawkes 

Mountebanks, The Luders 

Mount Rainier Bashford 

Mower in Ohio, The J. J. Piatt 

Mr. Hosea Biglow to the Editor of 
"The- Atlantic Monthly" (from 
" The Biglow Papers "). . . .J. R. Lowell 
Mr. Merry's Lament for " Long Tom " 

J, G. C. Brainard 

Mrs. Golightly Hall 

Mulf ord Whittier 

Music and Memory Albee 

Music in Camp J. R. Thompson 

Music in the Night Spofford 

Mtisic of Hungary A. R, Aldrich 

Music of the Night Neal 

My Autumn Walk Bryant 

My Babes in the Wood. ...S.M.B. Piatt 

My Bird Judson 

My Birth M.J. Savage 



294 
294 

96 
588 
124 

] •! 
1! 



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4: '.7 
6'.-3 
6.; k 

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£ '8 
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o24 

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1-4 

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864 



INDEX OF TITLES 



My Books H. W. Longfellow 126 

My Brigantine Cooper 30 

My Cat-Bird Venable 366 

My Child Pierpont '-S 

My Comrade Markham £^2 

My Comrade Roche 499 

My Country (extract) Woodberry 593 

" My DearHiig " Allen 327 

My Enemy Brotherton 501 

My Fatherland Lawton 567 

My Father's ChUd Bloede 492 

My Honey, My Love J. C. Harris 514 

My Laddie's Hounds Easter 471 

My Letter ' Litchfield 521 

My Little Girl S. M. Feck 577 

My Little Neighbor M. A. Mason 633 

My Lost Youth H. W. Longfellow 121 

My Maryland Randall 400 

My Mother's Bible G.P. Morris 83 

My New World I. Browne 359 

My Old Counselor Hall 700 

My Old Kentucky Home, Good-Night 

Foster 288 

My Other Me Litchfield 521 

My Queen Winter 371 

My Rose H. Hawthorne 744 

Myself (from " The Song of Myself ") 

W. Whitman 221 

Mystery, The L. Whiting 582 

My Uninvited Guest M. R. Smith 441 

Name in the Sand, A Gould 30 

National Paintings, The (extract) . .Brake 46 

Nature Dickinson 321 

Nature H. W. Longfellow 124 

Nature and the Child (from " God 

and the Soul ") J. L. Spalding 412 

Nature : the Artist .Knowles 727 

Near the Lake G. F. Morris 83 

Nearer Home Fhoebe Gary 297 

Negro Spirituals 459 

New Arrival, The Cable 589 

New Castalia, The W. H. Ward 358 

New England Fcrcival 70 

New England Frcntice 84 

New England's Dead McCldlan 190 

New Ezekiel , The Lazarus 520 

News, The (from " Curiosity ") . .Sprague 50 

New World, The Very 174 

Night after Night Bloede 492 

Night and Day Lanier 434 

Night-Blooming Cereus, The Monroe 662 

Nightfall in Dordrecht Eugene Field 527 

Night in Camp Bashford 735 

Night in Lesbos, A Horton 675 

Night Mists W.H. Hayne 613 

Night Watch, The Winter 371 

Night-Wind Lloyd 756 

Nihil Humani Alienum Coan 423 

Noel R. W. Gilder 478 

" No Hint of Stain " (from " An Ode 

in Time of Hesitation ") Moody 726 

Not Knowing M. G. Brainard 469 

November E. Stoddard 257 

Now M.B. Dodge 463 

Now I lay me down to sleep . E. H. Pullen 470 

Now is the Cherry in blossom Wilkins 770 



Obituary Parsons 240 

O Captain ! My Captain I...W. Whitman 231 

October in Tennessee Malone 715 

Ode Emerson 100 

Ode R.W. Gilder 474 

Ode, An T.B. Aldrich 385 

Ode, An, on the Celebration of the 
Battle of Bunker Hill, June 17, 

1825 (extract) ._ Mellen 89 

Ode for a Master Mariner Ashore. . Guiney 664 
Ode for Decoration Day, An (extract) 

Peterson 180 
Ode in Time of Hesitation, An (extracts) 

Mooaj 726 
Ode recited at the Harvard Commem- 
oration .J. R. Lowell 209 

Ode to a Butterfly T. W. Higginson 267 

Ode to England (extracts) Lord 243 

Ode to Fortune Halleck and Drake 47 

O Earth ! Art thou not weary ? Dorr 276 

O Fairest of the Rural Maids Bryant 54 

Of Joan's Youth Guiney 666 

Of one who neither sees nor hears 

R. W. Gilder 477 
Of one who seemed to have failed 

S. W. Mitchell 312 

Of t^he Lost Ship E. R. White 757 

O, Inexpressible as Sweet (from " WUd 

Eden ") Woodberry 591 

Old Hoyt 108 

Old-Fashioned Garden, The (extract) 

J. R. Hayes 721 

Old Flemish Lace A. W. Carpenter 411 

Old Folks at Home Foster 288 

Old Ironsides Holmes 153 

Old Man and Jim, The Riley 559 

Old Man's Carousal, The Paulding 17 

Old Man's Idyl, An Realf 343 

Old MiU, The. . : English 232 

Old Road, The Very 174 

Old Sergeant, The F. Willson 388 

Old Sexton, The Benjamin 681, 

Old Song reversed. An. . .R. H. Stoddard 285 

Old Street, An Cloud 657 

Old Thought, An Luders 632 

Old Violin, The Egan 644 

O Little Town of Bethlehem ... P. Brooks 468 

Olivia Pollock 300 

On a Boy's First Reading of " King 

Henry V " S. W. Mitchell 311 

On a Bust of Dante Parsons 237 

On a Cast from an Antique Pellew 648 

On a Dead Poet Osgood 170 

On a Ferry Boat Burton 645 

On a Grave in Christ-Church, Hants 

O. F. Adams 654 
On a Great Man whose Mind is clouding 

Stedman 338 

On a Greek Vase Sherman 65C 

On a Magazine Sonnet Loines 768 

On a Miniature H. A. Beers 504 

On a Piece of Tapestry Santayana 761 

On a Portrait of Columbus Woodberry 594 

On a Travelling Speculator Freneau ( 

Once before M. M. Dodge 39c 

One Country Stanton 625 

One Saturday ...A. 1>. Ti-b) nson 47( 



INDEX OF TITLES 



86s 



One Way of trusting H. P. Kimball 669 

On first entering Westminster Abbey 

Gulney 665 

On Kingston Bridge Cortissoz 553 

On Lebanon Gray 377 

On lending a Punch-Bowl Holmes 155 

Only One G. Cooper 588 

On One who died in May C. C. Cook 306 

Open Secret, An C A. Mason 463 

On reading T. B. Aldrick 384 

On reading a Poet's First Book 

H. C. Bunner 598 

On Sivori's Violin Osgood 170 

On Snow-Flakes melting on his Lady's 

Breast W. M. Johnson 28 

On Some Buttercups Sherman 650 

On the Atchafalaya (from " Evange- 

hne ") H. W. Longfellow 117 

On the Campagna .E. Stoddard 259 

On the Death of a Metaphysician 

Santayana 761 
On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake 

Halleck 37 
On the Death of Little Mahala Ashcraft 

Riley 561 

On the Death of my Son Charles . Webster 28 

On the Defeat of a Great Man Lord 244 

On the Fly-Leaf of Manon Lescaut 

Learned 502 

On the Heights Foote 360 

On the late S. T. Coleridge _. • Allston 18 

On the Life-Mask of Abraham Lincoln 

E. W. Gilder 475 

On the Plains F. Brooks 763 

On the Proposal to erect a Monument 

in England to Lord Byron Lazarus 518 

On the Road Dunbar 738 

On the Road to Chorrera A. Bates 534 

On the Ruins of a Country Inn. . .Freneau 5 

On the Slain at Chickamauga .... Melville 236 

On the Verge Winter 371 

On waking from a Dreamless Sleep 

A. Fields 346 

Open Secret, An C. A. Mason 463 

Opportunity Cawein 710 

Opportunity Ingalls 466 

Or ever the Earth was (from the 

" Book of Day-Dreams ") . . C. L. Moore 571 

Oriental Songs R. H. Stoddard 281 

0, struck beneath the Laurel (from 

" Wild Eden ") Woodberry 592 

Other One, The H. T. Peck 622 

Other World, The Stowe 194 

Our Orders J. W. Howe 221 

Our Two Opinions Eugene Field 529 

Out of the Cradle endlessly rocking 

W. Whitman 227 

Out of the Old House, Nancy ... Carleton 493 

Outward Bound T.B. Aldrich 382 

Over their Graves Stockard 634 

O ye Sweet Heavens Parsons 241 

Painted Fan, A Moulton 356 

Pxlabras Cariflosas T. B. Aldrich 380 

Palace of the Gnomes (from " Zophiel ") 

M. G. Brooks 71 

Palinode J. R. Lowell 216 



Pamela in Town Cortissoz 555 

Pan in Wall Street Stedman 334 

Paradisi Gloria Parsons 241 

Paraphrase of Luther's Hymn Hedge 192 

Parrhasius Willis 102 

Parting E. Dickinson 320 

Parting Glass, The Freneau 5 

Parting of the Ways, The . . . J. B. Gilder 773 

Passing Bell at Stratford, The .... Winter 373 

Past W. Howells 702 

Past, The Bryant 57 

Pastel Saltus 523 

Pasture, A Knowles 727 

Pawns, The (from " Wishmaker's 

Town") W. Young 507 

Pax Paganica Guiney 665 

Peaks, The S. Crane 733 

Perdita Coates '535 

Persicos Odi Merrill 769 

Peter Cooper J. Miller 429 

Petition, A T.B. Aldrich 385 

Petrified Fern, The Branch 461 

Phantoms All Spofford 353 

Philomel to Corydon W. Young 508 

" Picciola " Newell 456 

Pike County Ballads (extracts) ... J. Hay 396 

Pilgrim Fathers, The Pierpont 35 

Pilgrim, The Palfrey 298 

Pines, The Lippinann 707 

Pines, The Spoffcyrd 354 

Pines and the Sea, The Crunch 173 

Pine-Tree Buoy, A H. S. Morris 619 

Pioneers Garland 654 - 

Pitcher of Mignonette, A. . .H. C. Bunner 597 

Pity of the Leaves, The . .E. A. Robinson 728 

Plain Man's Dream, A Keppel 672 

Plantation Ditty, A Stanton 623 

Planting of the Apple-Tree, The . . Bryant 62 

Plato to Theon Freneau 8 

Plough-Hands' Song, The ...J.C. Harris 513 

Poe's Cottage at Fordham Boner 487 

Poet, The Bryant 64 

Poet, The C. Mathews 201 

Poet and Lark De Vere 449 

Poet and the Child, The W. Howells 701 

Poet of Earth S. H. Thayer 408 

Poetry Markham 542 

Poetry . . . ; Foote 360 

Poet's Hope, A (extract) Channing 185 

Poet's Secret, The E. Stoddard 257 

Polar Quest, The Burton 647 

Poppies in the Wheat Jackson 325 

Portrait, A Duer 730 

Posthumous H. A. Beers 503 

Post-Meridian W, P. Garrison 465 

Power Collier 467 

Prairie H. Bates 720 

Praise-God Barebones Cortissoz 554 

Prayer C. F. Richardson 540 

Prayer, A Sill 421 

Pray for the Dead Eaton 578 

Praxiteles and PhrjTie Story 220 

Prelude Stedman 2 

Prelude J. P. Peabody 745 

Prescience T. B. Aldrich 383 

Presentiment Bierce 444 

Priest's Prayer, A M. G. Dickinson 714 



866 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Private Devotion P. H. Brown 28 

Problem, The Emerson 91 

Processional James 733 

Proem Cawein 708 

Proem Herford 697 

Proem Whittier 128 

Proem, A S. Ward 200 

Prophecy, A (from "Lincoln's Grave ") 

M. Thompson 486 
Prophetess (from "Snow-Bound ") 

Whittier 138 

PsaLm of Life, A H.W. Longfellow 112 

Purpose J.J. Piatt 353 

Purpose (from " To a Writer of the Day ") 

L. E. Mitchell 685 

Pyxidanthera, The Bristol 460 

Quakeress Bride, The Kinney 167 

Quaker Graveyard, The. ... 5. W. Mitchell 313 

Quaker Ladies Cortissoz 555 

Quaker Widow, The B. Taylor 273 

Quatorzain Timrod 316 

Quatrain, A Sherman 651 

Quest (from " Corda Concordia ' ') Stedman 339 

Quiet Pilgrim, The E. M. Thomas 572 

Quits T.B. Aldrich 385 

Edhat, The Eoone^ 718 

Rain-Crow, The Cawein 708 

Rare Moments C. H. Phelps 549 

Raven, The Poe 144 

Reality. M.G. Dickinson 714 

Recognition Chadwick 416 

Recollection A. B. Aldrich 719 

Recollection A. W. Carpenter 410 

Reconciliation C. A. Mason 463 

Recrimination Wilcox 615 

Recruit, The Chambers 764 

Red Jacket. . , Halleck 40 

Reed, The ._ ...H.B. Carpenter 413 

Reincarnation Sickels 469 

Remembrance Boner 488 

Remembrance G. P. Lathrop 537 

Remembrance, A Clarke 197 

Reminiscence T. B. Aldrich 382 

Republic, The (from " The Building 

of the Ship ") H. W. Longfellow 119 

Requiem Lunt 189 

Reserve Reese 612 

Reserve M. A. Townsend 330 

Respite, The (from "Zophiel") 

M. G. Brooks 72 

Retort Dunbar 737 

Return, The A. Fields 347 

Return of Napoleon from St. Helena, The 

Sigourney 48 

Revealed Koopman 653 

Reveille M. O' Connor 457 

Rhodora, The Emerson 92 

Rhceeus (extract) J. R. I^owell 202 

Richard Somers B. Eastman 725 

Ride to Cherokee, The. .A. W. Carpenter 410 

Ride to the Lady, The Cone 642 

Riding Down N. Perry 424 

Rinaldo Peterson 181 

" Rise," A McGaJfey 670 

Rise of Man, The Chadwick 417 



River-Fight (extract) Bro'wnell 

Robert Gould Shaw (from " An Ode in 

Time of Hesitation "; Moody 

Robin Redbreast G. W. Doane 

Robinson Crusoe C. E. Carryl 

Robin's Secret K. L. Bates 

Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep . Willard 

Rock me to sleep Allen 

RoU-CaU . .' Shepherd 

Roll, Jordan, Roll {Negro Spiritual) 

Roll out, O Song F. Sewall 

Romance M. Howells 

Room's Width, The E. S. P. Ward 

Rosalie Allston 

Rosary, The Rogers 

Rose and Root J. J. Piatt 

Rose and Thorn, The P. H. Hayne 

Rose of Stars, The (from " Wild Eden") 
Woodberry 

Rose's Cup, The Sherman 

Roses of Memory Gordon 

RosUn and Hawthornden Van Dyke 

Royal Mummy to Bohemia, The 

C. W. Stoddard 

Rubric J. P. Peabody 

Russia. Dole 

Russian Fantasy, A Dole 

Salem Stedman 

Sambo's Right to be Kilt .Halpine 

Samuel Hoar Sanborn 

Sanctuary Guiney 

Sandpiper, The Thaxter 

Sandy Hook Houghton 

Santa Barbara .F. F. Broivne 

Sargent's Portrait of Edwin Booth at 

" The Players " T.B. Aldrich 

Sassafras S.M. Peck 

Satirist, The Koopman 

Saturninus Conway 

Savage, A CReilly 

'Scaped S. Crane 

Scarlet Tanager, The Benton 

Scarlet Tanager, The M, A. Mason 

School Girl, The V enable 

Scurrilous Scribe, The Freneau 

Sea, The B.H. Stoddard 

Sea and Shore Koopman 

Sea-Birds Allen 

Sea Irony Heaton 

Search, The Crosby 

Sea-Sleep T. L. Harris 

Sea's Spell, The S.M. Spalding 

Seaward Thaxter 

Seaward (from "Wild Eden") Woodberry 

Sea-Way Cortissoz 

Sea-Weed, The E. C. Pullen 

Second Mate, The O'Brien 

Second Quest, The (from " The Cul- 
prit Fay ") Drake 

Second Volume, The Bell 

Secret, The E. Dickinson 

Secret, The (from " Wild Eden ") 

Woodberry 

Seeker in the Marshes, The Dawson 

Segovia and Madrid R. T. Cooke 

Sent with a Rose to a Young Lady Deland 



245 

726 
76 
433 
647 
29 
329 
456 
459 
469 
742 
482 
18 
691 
350 
319. 

591 
651 
607 
546 

445 
746 
545 
545 

336 
454 
326 
667 
369 
525 
447 

381 
576 
653 
568 
480 
733 
326 
633 
366 
6 
280 
652 
327 
677 
621 
261 
636 
369 
592 
557 
603 
303 

44 
649 
322 

590 
603 
2S9 
624 



INDEX OF TITLES 



867 



Separation A. L. Bunner 673 

Separation M. G. Dickinson 715 

Serenade, A Pinkney 82 

Serenade (from " The Spanish Stu- 
dent ") H. W. Longfellow 115 

Sesostris Miffiin 497 

Settler, The Street 171 

Shadow, The R. H. Stoddard 281 

Shadow Dance, The Moulton 356 

Shadow-Evidence M. M. Dodge 394 

Shadow of the Night, A....T.B. Aldrich 381 

Shadow Rose, The Rogers 690 

Shadows, The Sherman 651 

Shakespeare Blood 391 

Shamrock, The Egan 544 

She came and went J. R. Lowell 204 

Sherman R. W. Gilder 476 

She was a Beauty H. C. Bunner 597 

Ship, The Mifflin 496 

Sidney Godolphin ScoUard 658 

Sigh, A Spofford 354 

Sigh not for Love H. Hay 754 

Sight in Camp in the Daybreak Gray 

and Dim, A. W. Whitman 231 

Si Jeunesse savait Stedman 338 

Silence Morse 425 

SUence J. L. Spalding 412 

Silkweed P. H. Savage 724 

Simple Simon Morgridge 473 

" Since Cleopatra died ". T. W. Higginson 269 

Sinf onia Eroica James 732 

Sing again Van Vorst 773 

Singer of One Song, The. . . .U. A. Beers 505 

Sinless Child, The (extract). .E. O. Smith 126 

Sir Marmaduke's Musings Tilton 363 

Sister (from " Snow-Bound ").... Whittier 138 

Sisters, The Tabb 489 

Skeleton at the Feast, The Roche 499 

Skeleton in Armor, The .H. W. Longfellow 112 

Skilful Listener, The Cheney 516 

Skipper Ireson's Ride Whittier 133 

Sky, The R. H. Stoddard 281 

Sky-Lark's Song, The (from " Master 

Sky-Lark ") J. Bennett 711 

Sleep T. B. Aldrich 383 

Sleep A. Brown 627 

Sleep Tooker 606 

" Sleep and his Brother Death " 

W. H. Hayne 613 

Sleeper, The _ Poe 146 

Sleeping Priestess of Aphrodite, A. . Rogers 689 

Sleighing Song Shaw 15 

Small and Early Jenks 625 

Smiling Demon of Notre Dame, A. .Jewett 694 

Smoke Thoreau 183 

Smooth Divine, The Dwigjit 9 

Snow-Bound (extracts) Whitiier 137 

Snowflakes ._ M. M. Dodge 587 

" Snowing of the Pines, The " 

T. W. Higgtnson 268 

Snow-Storm, The Emerson 93 

Society upon the Stanislaus, The . . . Harte 405 

Soldier Poet, A R. Johnson 409 

Soldier's Grave, A Albee 332 

Solitude F. Peterson 677 

Solitude P. H. Savage 724 

Snng Jewett 694 



Song M. W. Lowell 

Song A. D. Miller 

Song Osgood 

Song Pinkney 

Song Shaw 

Song B. Taylor 

Song Thaxter 

Song F.W. Thomas 

Song Williams 

Song, A H. Hawthorne 

Song, The Erskine 

Song about Singing, A A. R. Aldrich 

Song and Science Shinn 

Song before Grief, A R. H. Lathrop 

Song for Lexington, A Weeks 

Song for the asking, A Ticknor 

Song for "The Jaquerie " (extracts) Lanier 

Song from, a Drama Stedman 

Song from " Ben Hur " Wallace 

Song in March Simms 

Song in the DeU, The C. E. Carryl 

Song of a Heathen, The. . . .R. W. Gilder 

Song of Arno, A Channing- Stetson 

Song of Egla M. G. Brooks 

Song of Eros, in " Agathon " . . Woodberry 
Song of Hiawatha, The (extract) 

H. W. Longfellow 
Song of Myself, The (extracts) W. Whitman 

Song of Riches, A K. L. Bates 

Song of the Ancient People, The (extract) 

Proctor 

Song of the Camp, The B. Taylor 

Song of the Chattahoochee Lanier 

Song of the Elfin Steersman Hill 

Song of the Hunt, The (from " Master 

Sky-Lark ") J. Bennett 

Song of the Palm T. Robinson 

Song of the Sons of Esau, The .... Runkle 
Song of the Turnkey, The. . .H. B. Smith 

Song of the Wave, A Lodge 

Song of Thyrsis Freneau 

Song of Two Angels, A Richards 

Songs R. W. Gilder 

Songs (from " Master Sky-Lark") 

J. Bennett 

Song's Worth, A S. M. Spalding 

" Song, to the Gods, is Sweetest Sacrifice " 
A. Fields 

Song with a Discord, A Colton 

Song, Youth, and Sorrow Lawton 

Sonnet, A A. D. Miller 

Sonnet, A Troubetskoy 

Sonnet,_The i?. IF. Gilder 

Sonnet in a Garden J. P. Peabody 

Sonnets (from the series relating to 

Edgar Allan Poe) <S, jBT. Whitman 

Sorrow _ Trask 

So slow to die (from " Wild Eden ") 

Woodberry 

Soul, The Cawein 

Soul and Sense H. P. Kimball 

Soul in the Body, The E. M. Thomas 

Soul of Man, The Goodale 

Soul of the World, The Crosby 

Soul unto Soul glooms darkling (from 

the " Book of Day-Dreams ") 

C L. Moore 



249 
730 
170 
81 
14 
272 
370 
196 
483 
744 
767 
718 
628 
540 
415 
25S 
433 
333 
678 
107 
432 
478 
741 
73 
595 

119 
221 

648 

398 
274 
434 



712 
340 
758 
679 
743 
3 
524 
475 

711 
636 

348 
723 
567 
731 
699 
476 
745 

101 
671 

592 
710 

669 
574 
722 
621 



570 



868 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Soul's Defiance, The L. Stoddard 29 

Soul, wherefore fret thee ? Bloede 492 

Southern Girl, A S. M. Peck 577 

Southern Snow-Bird, The .. TF. H. Hayne 612 

South- Wind G- P. Lathrop 637 

Sovereigns, The Mifflin 496 

So wags the World Cortissoz 554 

Spanish Student, The (extract) 

H. W. Longfellow 115 

Sparkling and Bright Hoffman 110 

Sphinx, The Brownell 247 

Sphinx speaks, The Saltus 522 

Spinner, The De Vere 448 

Spirit of the Fall, The Dandridoe 640 

Spirit of the Maine, The Jenks 625 

Spirit of the Wheat, The Valentine 731 

Spray of Honeysuckle, A Bradley 364 

Spring Loveman 763 

Spring Beauties, The Cone 644 

Stab, The Harney 323 

Stanza from an Early Poem Cranch 173 

Stanza on Freedom, A J. R. Lowell 203 

Stanzas Wilde 27 

Starlight Chadwick 416 

Star of Calvary, The N. Hawthorne 191 

Starry Host, The J. L. Spalding 411 

Stars, The M. M. Bodge 393 

Stars begin to fall {Negro Spiritual) 459 

Star-Spangled Banner, The Key 16 

Statue of Lorenzo de' Medici, The 

Nesmith 674 

Stella Crandall 631 

Stevenson's Birthday K. Miller 761 

Still though the One I sing . . W. Whitman 221 

Stirrup-Cup, The J. Hay 398 

Stirrup-Cup, The Lanier 434 

Stonewall Jackson , Flash 455 

StonewallJackson's Way. . J". W. Palmer 277 

Stone Walls Lippmann 707 

Storm in the Distance, A ... P. H. Hayne 318 

Strip of Blue, A Larcom 299 

Strong, The Cheney 515 

Strong Heroic Line, The Holmes 161 

Succession, The Mace 684 

Such is the Death the Soldier dies 

R. B. Wilson 532 
" Such Stuff as Dreams are made of " 

T. W. Higginson 269 

Summer Night, A E. Stoddard 259 

Summer Sanctuary, A Ingham 652 

Sunflower to the Sun, The Stebbins 188 

Sunrise _ Lanier 437 

Sunrise in the Hills of Satsuma 

. M. M. Fenollosa 739 

Sunrise of the Poor, The. . .R. B. Wilson 532 

Sunset Bashford 736 

Sunset, A Loveman 763 

Sunshine of the Gods, The (extract) 

B. Taylor 275 
Sunshine of thine Eyes, The 

G. P. Lathrop 537 

Surrender of Spain, The J. Hay 396 

Survival Coates 535 

Swamp Fox, The Simms 106 

Swan Song of Parson Avery, The 

Whittier 134 

Sweets that die L. E. Mitchell 686 



Swing low, Sweet Chariot 

(Negro Spiritual) 
Sycophantic Fox and the Gullible Ra- 
ven, The G. W. Carryl 

Symbols V. Thompson 

Tacita Kenyon 

Tacking Ship off Shore W. Mitchell 

T. A. _H Bierce 

Taliesin : A Masque (extract) Hovey 

Tannhauser W. M. Payne 

Tears _. Reese 

Tears in Spring Channing 

Tears of the Poplars^ The. .E. M. Thomas 
Technique (from " To a Writer of the 

Day'*) L.E.Mitchell 685 

Telling the Bees Reese 611 

TeU Me (from " The Inverted Torch ") 

E. M. Thomas 576 

Tellus Huntington 390 

Tempted Sill 420 

Tennessee F. Brooks 763 

Tennyson T. B. Aldrieh 381 

Tennyson Coates 536 

Tennyson Va7i Dyke 547 

Terminus Emerson 97 

Term of Death, The S. M. B. Piatt 377 

Test, The Emerson 101 

Thalatta I Thalatta ! J.B. Brown 305 

Thalia T. B. Aldrich 384 

Thanatopsis Bryant 53 

Thanksgiving in Boston Harbor, The 

Butterworih 450 

That such have died E. Dickinson 322 

Thefts of the Morning E. M. Thomas 574 

Then and Now C. F. Johnson 368 

Then shall we see (from the " Book of 

Day-Dreams ") C. L. Moore 

Theocritus A. Fields 

Theseus and Ariadne Mifflin 

Thisbe Cone 

Thistle-Down CD. Bates 

Thomas k Kempis Bowker 

Thomas k Kempis Reese 

Thoralf and Synnov Boyeson 

Thoreau A.B. Alcott 

Thoreau's Flute L. M. Alcott 

Thoughts on the Commandments . . Baker 
Thou livest, Soul ! (from the " Book 

of Day-Dreams ") C. L. Moore 571 

Threnody Emerson 97 

Threnody, A Lanigan 473 

Tide rises, the Tide falls. The 

H. W. Longfellow 125 

Time Collier 467 

Time and Eternity Dickinson ^'22 

'T is but a Little Faded Flower 

Howarth 300 

To Abraham Lincoln J. J. Piatt 350 

To a Caty-Did Freneau 7 

To a Cherokee Rose W. H. Hayne 612 

To a ChUd Montgomery 614 

To a Crow R. B. Wilson 531 

To a Honey Bee Freneau 7 

To a Hurt Child Litchfield 521 

To a June Breeze H. C, Bunner 599 

To a Lady Parsons 240 



INDEX OF TITLES 



869 



To a Lady J.J. Piatt 

To a Lily Legari. 

To a Magnolia Flower in the Garden 

of the Armenian Convent at Venice 

S. W. Mitchell 

To a Maple Seed Mifflin 

To a Moth C.E. Thomas 

To an Autumn Leaf A. Mathews 

To an Imperilled Traveller Dole 

To an Obscure Poet who lives on my 

Hearth Hildreth 

To an Old Venetian Wine-Glass . . .Mifflin 

To a Rose Sherman 

To a Town Poet Meese 

To a Waterfowl Bryant 

To a Wild Rose found in October 

E. P. C. Hayes 

To a Wind-Flower Cawein 

To a Withered Rose Bangs 

To a Writer of the Day (extracts^ 

L. E. Mitchell 

To a Young Child Scudder 

To a Young Girl dying Parsons 

To Critics Learned 

To IXemeter Fleming 

To Diane H. Hay 

To Duty T. W. Higginson 

To England Boker 

To England C.L. Moore 

To Faustine Colton 

To Giulia Grisi Willis 

To Hafiz T.B. Aldrich 

To Helen Poe 

To his Countrymen (from " A Fable 

for Critics ") J. B. Lowell 

To Imagination E- M. Thomas 

To Jessie's Dancing Feet 

W. DeL. Ellwanger 
To John Greenleaf Whittier .'. W. H. Ward 
To Leuconoe (from " Echoes from the 

Sabine Farm "j Eugene Field 

To Miguel de Cervantes Saavadra 

Munkittrick 

To-Morrow Coates 

To M. T B. Taylor 

To my Lady Boker 

To-Night Moulton 

Too late E. Dickinson 

To One being Old L. E. Mitchell 

To One in Paradise Poe 

To 0. S. C Trumbull 

Torch Bearers, The (extract). . . .A. Bates 

Torch-Light in Autumn J.J. Piatt 

Torn Hat, The Willis 

To Rosina Pico Lord 

To Russia J. Miller 

To Sally J.Q. Adams 

To Shakespeare B. E. Day 

To Shelley Tabb 

To Sleep Fleming 

To Sleep Osgood 

To St. Mary Magdalen B. D. Hill 

To the Boy •_.... Kinney 

To the Fountain of Bandusia (from 

" Echoes from the Sabine Farm ") 

Eugene Field 
To the Fringed Gentian Bryant 



351 

267 



311 

497 
765 
305 
545 

616 
496 
650 
611 
54 

750 
709 
693 

685 
298 
239 
503 
566 
753 
268 
263 
569 
724 
106 
379 
144 

205 
675 

590 
338 

530 

552 
536 
275 
263 
355 
322 
687 
147 
672 
533 
351 
105 
244 
429 
13 
543 
489 
566 
169 
470 
167 



530 
59 



Td the Man-of- War-Bird ...W. Whitman 

To the Milkweed Mifflin 

To the Mocking-Bird Pike 

To the Mocking-Bird Wilde 

To the Moonflower Betts 

Town of Hay, The Foss 

Tradition of Conquest . . . .S. M. B. Piatt 

Transfigured S. M. B. Piatt 

Travellers, The M. A. DeW. Howe 

Tribute of Grasses, A Garland 

Trilby A. Brown 

Trust Reese 

Tsigane's Canzonet, The King 

Tuberose Block 

Tutelage, The Bell 

Twilight at Sea Welby 

Twilight at the Heights J. Miller 

" Twilight of the Poets, The " Shinn 

Two Angels, The Whittier 

Two Argosies Bruce 

Two Friends, The Leland 

Two Mysteries, The M.M. Dodoe 

Two of a Trade Duffleld 

Two Paths Dorr 

Two Spirits, The Kenyon 

Two Wives, The - . . . W. D. Howells 

Ulalume Poe 

Ulf in Ireland DeKay 

Unanswered M.G. Dickinson 

Unborn, The Finch 

Uncle Gabe's White Folks Page 

"Undersong, The" (from "Wood- 
notes ") Emerson 

Under the Blue F. F. Browne 

Under the Red Cross Hickox 

Under the Snow Collyer 

Under the Stars Rice 

Under the Violets Holmes 

Under the Violets E. Young 

Undiscovered Country, The 

T. B. Aldrich 

Unfulfilment Bushnell 

Unguarded Gates T. B. Aldrich 

" Unillumined Verge, The " Bridges 

Uninscribgd Monuraent, on one of the 
Battlefields of the Wilderness, An 

Melville 

Unless Glynes 

Unmanifest Destiny Hovey 

Unpraised Picture, An Burton 

Unreturning E. Stoddard 

Unseen Spirits W^illis 

Unwritten Poems Winter 

Ute Lover, The Garland 

Utterance E. Dickinson 

Vagabonds, The Trowbridge 

Valentine, A Gillespy 

Valentine, A Richards 

Valse Jeune Guiney 

Vanished E. Dickinson 

Vanishers, The Whittier 

Vanquished F. F. Browne 

Vaquero J. Miller 

Veery, The Van Dyke 

Veery-Thrush, The J. R. Taylor 



230 
497 
163 
27 
553 
676 
375 
377 
708 
655 
626 
611 
511 
565 
649 
296 
429 
628 
139 
583 
270 
392 
463 
277 
630 
386 

151 

510 
715 
759 
557 

95 
447 
581 
301 
688 
159 
198 

383' 
346 
380 
637 



236 
581 
704 
646 
258 
105 
374 
655 
320 

292 
767 
525 
666 
322 
135 
446 
428 
546 
723 



870 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Venus of the Louvre Lazarus 519 

Vicksburg P. H. Hayne 317 

Village Blacksmith, The 

H. W. Longfellow 114 

Vingtaine A. L. Bunner 673 

Violets, The -S. Crane 734 

Violinls Complaint, The ...JV.B. Thayer 641 

Virgil's Tomb Rogers 690 

Virginians of the Valley, The .... Ticknor 253 

Virtuosa M. A. Townsend 330 

Vision W.B. Howells 387 

Vision of Sir Launfal, The (extract) 

J. E. Lowell 204 

Vision of the Snow, The Preston 286 

Visit from St. Nicholas, A . . . C. C. Moore 15 

Vita Benefiea Bollins 500 

Viv^rols Jordan 579 

Voice Spofford 355 

Voiceless, The Holmes 157 

Voice of the Dove, The J. Miller 429 

Voice of the Grass, The Boyle 199 

Voice of tha Void, The ...G.P. Lathrop 537 
Voice of Webster, The (extract) 

B. U. Johnson 549 
Void between, The (from " God and 

the Soul " J.L. Spalding 413 

Volunteer, The Cutler 455 

Votive Song Pinkney 82 

Waiting Burroughs 464 

Waiting Chords S. H. Thayer 408 

Waking Year, The E. Dickinson 321 

Walt Whitman H. S. Morris 620 

Walt Whitman Williams 483 

Wander-Lovers, The Hovey 702 

Wapentake H. W. Longfellow 124 

War Channing- Stetson 740 

Warden of the Cinque Ports, The 

H. W. Longfellow 120 
Warren's Address to the American 

Soldiers Pierpont 34 

Washington (from the " Commemora- 
tion Ode ") Monroe 660 

Washington Sequoia, The (extract) . Shinn 629 

Washington's Statue Tuckerman 190 

Wasted Sympathy, A . ._ W. Howells 702 

Was there Another Spring H. Hay 754 

Watcher, The S.J. Hale 24 

Watchers, The A. Bates 534 

Watching Judson 183 

Watch of a Swan, The. . . .-S. M. B. Piatt 375 

Water-Lily, The Tahb 489 

Waves Emerson 97 

Wayfarer, The S. Crane 734 

Wayside, The Morse 426 

Wayside Virgin, The L. E. Mitchell 687 

Way the Baby slept. The Piley 561 

Way the Baby woke. The Riley 560 

Way to Arcady, The H. C. Bunner 596 

Way to Heaven, The C. G. Whiting 432 

Webster : An Ode (extract) .... Wilkinson 451 

Wedding-Song, A Chadwick 417 

We lay us down to sleep Moulton 357 

Wendell Phillips A.B. Alcott 79 

Wendell Phillips_ (extract) O'Reilly 480 

Were but my Spirit loosed upon the Air 

Moulton 357 



Were-Wolf J. Hawthorne 

Westward Ho ! J. Miller 

We walked among the Whispering Pines 

Boner 

We were Boys together G. P. Morris 

What is the Use (extract) Ellsworth 

What Mr. Robinson thinks (from 

" The Biglow Papers "). . . J", i?. Lowell 

What my Lover said H. Greene 

What shall it profit ? W. D. Howells 

What the Bullet sang Harte 

What though the Green Leaf grow ? 

Fleming 

Wliat was my Dream ? J. O'Connor 

When Almonds bloom Shinn 

When Even cometh on Tilley 

Whenever a Little Child is born 

A. C. Mason 
When first I saw her (from " Wild 

Eden ") Woodberry 

When in the first Great Hour (from 

"The Inverted Torch "KJS. M. Thomas 

When Love comes knocking Gardner 

When Nature hath betrayed the 

Heart that loved her Jewett 

When she comes home Riley 

When the Grass shall cover me 

Coolbrith 
When the Great Gray Ships come in 

G. W.Carryl 

When the most is said De Vere 

When the Sultan goes to Ispahan 

T. B. Aldrich 

Where Helen comes Rooney 

Where Helen sits Richards 

Where Hudson's Wave G. P- Morris 

Whirlwind Road, The Markham 

White Azaleas H. McE. Kimball 

White Rose, A O'Reilly 

White Roses Fabbri 

Whither Cheney 

Whither Goetz 

Whittier Sangster 

Who knows ? N . Perry 

" Whom the Gods love " 

M.A.De W. Howe 

Why ? fe\ Crane 

Why it was cold in May Eliot 

Why the Robin's Breast was Red 

Randall 

Why thus longing ? H. W. Sewall 

Why ye blossome cometh before ye 

Leafe Herford 

Widowed Heart, The Pike 

Wife, The Binnies 

Wild Eden (extracts) Woodberry 

Wild Geese, The Morse 

Wild Honeysuckle, The Freneau 

Wild Ride, The Guiney 

Willis, The Proudjit 

Will it be so? (from "The Inverted 

Torch") E.M. Thomas 

Wind and Wave C.W. Stoddard 

Wind in the Pines, The Caivein 

Wind-swept Wheat, The De Vere 

Wine and Dew R. H. Stoddard 

Winged Worshippers, The Sprague 



INDEX OF TITLES 



871 



Winter Days Abbey 442 

Winter Sleep E. M. Thomas 575 

Winter Twilight Elliot 581 

Winter TwiHght, A A. Bates 535 

Winter Wish, A Messinger 199 

Wish, A Garland 655 

Wishmaker's Town (extracts) . . W. Young 506 

Wistful Days, The B. U. Johnson 550 

Witch in the Glass, The ..8.M.B. Piatt 375 

Witch's Whelp, The B. U. Stoddard 279 

With a Nantucket Shell Webb 341 

With a Rose from Conway Castle. . . .Dorr 276 

With a Spray of Apple Blossoms .iearwec? 502 

With Flowers E. Dickinson 320 

With Lilacs Crandall 631 

With Roses Lloyd 756 

With Wordsworth at Rydal. .J. T. Fields 181 

Woman's Execution, A King 512 

Woman's Pride, A H. Hay 754 

Wonderland H. T. Peck 622 

"Woodbines in October C.F. Bates 400 

Woodman, spare that Tree I..G.P. Moiris 82 

Woodnotes (extracts) Emerson 95 

Wood-Song J. P. Peabody 745 

Word, The Bealf 343 

Word of God to Leyden came, The 

Bankin 295 
Wordsworth (from An " Ode to Eng- 
land ") Lord 243 

Word to the Wise, A Duer 730 

Work Block 565 

World Beyond, A Bowditch 192 

World I am passing through, The . . . Child 89 



World is mine. The Coates 536 

World Music Bushnell 345 

World Transformed, The (from 

" Snow-Bound ") Whittier 137 

World well lost, The Stedman 337 

Worship (extract) Lord 242 

Written at the End of a Book 

L. E. Mitchell 687 
Written in the Visitors' Book at the 

Birthplace of Robert Burns Cable 589 

Written on a Fly-Leaf of Theocritus 

M. Thompson 485 

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod . Eugene Field 526 

Yankee Man-of-War, The 

Author TJnfound 8 

Yellow Jessamine Woolson 460 

Ylen's Song (from "The Birth of 

Galahad ") .Hovey .705 

Yosemite (from " The Washington 

Sequoia ") Shinn 629 

Young Lovers, The (from "The 

House of a Hundred Lights ") . Torrence 752 

Yourself Very 174 

Youth Cloud 658 

Youth Lodge 744 

Youth and Age (from "The House 

of a Hundred Lights ") Torrence 752 

Yjiki M. M. Fenollosa 739 

Yule Log, The W. H. Hayne 613 

Yuma C.H. Phelps 549 

" Zophiel " (extracts) M. G. Brooks 71 



INDEX OF POETS 



Abbey, Henry 442 

Adams, John Quincy 13 

Adams, Maky Mathews 465 

Adams, Oscar Fay 653 

Albee, John 332 

Alcott, Amos Bronson 77 

Alcott, Louisa May 466 

Aldrich, Anne Reeve 718 

Aldrich, James 197 

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey 379 

Allen, Elizabeth Akers 327 

Allston, Washington 18 

Anonymous 8, 459 

Antrobus, John 453 

Arnold, George 344 

Auringer, 0. C 516 

Baker, George Augustus 589 

Bangs, John Kendrick 693 

Barker, Edward D 681 

Bashford, Herbert 735 

Bates, Arlo 533 

Bates, Charlotte Fiske 399 

Bates, Clara Doty 587 

Bates, Herbert 720 

Bates, Katharine Lee 647 

Beers, Ethel Lynn 454 

Beers, Henry Augustin 503 

Bell, Robert Mowry 649 

Benjamin, Park 682 

Bennett, Henry Holcomb 756 

Bennett, John 711 

Bensel, James Berry 674 

Benton, Joel 326 

Bethune, George Washington 192 

Betts, Craven Langstroth 552 

BiERCE, Ambrose 443 

Blake, Mary Elizabeth 462 

Block, Louis James 564 

Bloedb, Gertrude 492 

Blood, Henry Ames 391 

Blount, Edward Augustus, Jr 768 

BoGART, Elizabeth 682 

BoKER, George Henry 261 

Bolton, Sarah Knowles 467 

Boner, John Henry 487 

Bowditch, Nathaniel Ingersoll. 192 

BowKER, Richard Rogers 582 

BoYESON, Hjalmar Hjorth 512 

Boyle, Sarah Roberts 199 

Brackett, Anna Callender 367 

Bradley, Mary Emily 363 

Brainard, John Gardiner Calkins. . 75 

Brainard, Mary Gardiner 470 



Branch, Mary Bolles 461 

" Bridges, Madeline." — See Mary 
Ainge De Vere. 

Bridges, Robert 637 

Bristol, Augusta Cooper 460 

Brooks, Francis 763 

Brooks, Maria Gowen 71 

Brooks, Phillips 468 

Brotherton, Alice Williams 501 

Brown, Alice 626 

Brown, Joseph Brownlbe 306 

Brown, Phcebe Hinsdale 29 

Brown, Theron 680 

"Browne, Francis Fisher. 446 

Browne, Irving • 359 

Brownell, Henry Howard 245 

Bruce, Wallace 583 

Bryant, William Cullen 53 

Buck, Richard Henry 681 

BucKHAM, James 673 

Bull, Lucy Catlin. — See Lucy Robin- 
son. 

BuNNER, Alice Learned 673 

BuNNER, Henry Cuyler 596 

" Burroughs, Ellen." — See Sophie 
Jewett. 

Burroughs, John 464 

Burton, Richard 645 

BusHNELL, Frances Louisa 345 

Butler, William Allen 306 

BUTTERWORTH, HeZEKSAH 451 

Butts, Mary Frances 468, 588 

Cable, George Washington 589 

Carleton, Will 493 

Carpenter, Amelia Walstien 410 

Carpenter, Henry Bernard 413 

Carryl, Charles Edward 432 

Carryl, Guy Wetmore 741 

Gary, Alice 297 

Gary, Phcebe 297 

Cavazza, Elisabeth Jones.' — See 
Elisabeth Cavazza Pullen. 

Cawein, ]VL\.dison 708 

Chadwick, John White 415 

Chambers, Robert William 764 

Channinq, William Ellery 185 

Channing-Stetson, Grace Ellery. . . 740 

Cheney, John Vance 515, 587 

Child, Lydia Maria 90 

Clarke, Joseph I. C 547 

Clarke, Willis Gaylord 197 

Cloud, Virginia Woodward 657 

CoAN, Titus Munson 422 



874 



INDEX OF POETS 



CoATBS, Floeencb Earlb 535 

Cocke, Zitella 769 

Coles, Abraham 193 

CoLLiEK, Thomas Stephens 467 

CoLLYEB, Robert 302 

CoLTON, Arthur 723 

Cone, Helen Gray 642 

Conway, Katherine Eleanor 567 

Cook, Clarence Chatham 307 

Cooke, John Esten 455 

Cooke, Philip Pendleton 198 

Cooke, Rose Terry 289 

COOLBRITH, InA 494 

" CooLiDGE, Susan." — See Sarah 
Chauncey Woolsey. 

Cooper, George 588 

Cooper, James Fenimore 30 

CoRTissoz, Ellen Mackay Hutchin- 
son 553 

CoxB, Arthur Cleveland 184 

Cranch, Christopher Pbarse 172 

Crandall, Charles Henry 631 

Crane, Elizabeth Green 772 

Crane, Stephen 733 

" Croakers, The," — See Halleck and 
Drake. 

Croffut, William Augustus 464 

Crqsby, Ernest 620 

Croswell, William 192 

Curtis, George William 305 

Cutler, Elbridge Jefferson 455 

Dallas, Mary Kyle 580 

Daly, Eugene Howell 768 

Dana, Richard Henry 21 

Dandridgb, Danske 639 

Davidson, Margaret Gilman (George) 760 

Dawes, Rufus 195 

Dawson, Daniel Lewis 603 

Day, Richard Edwin 543 

Day, Thomas Fleming 757 

De Kay, Charles 509 

Deland, Margaret 624 

Dennen, Grace Atherton 771 

De Verb, Mary Ainge 447 

Dewey, George Washington 198 

Dickinson, Charles Monroe 472 

Dickinson, Emily 320, 587 

Dickinson, Martha Gilbert 714 

Dinnies, Anna Pbyre 198 

DoANE, George Washington 76 

DoANE, William Croswell 468 

Dodge, Mary Barker 464 

Dodge, Mary Mapes 392, 587 

Dole, Nathan Haskell 545 

DoRGAN, John Aylmer 364 

Dorr, Julia Caroline Ripley 275 

" Douglas, Marian." — See Annie Doug- 
las Robinson. 

Drake, Joseph Rodman 42 

"Droch." — See Robert Bridges. 
DuER, Alice. —See Alice Duer Miller. 

DuER, Caroline 729 

Duffield, Samuel Willoughby 463 

Dunbar, Paul Laurence 737 

DuRivAGE, Francis Alexander 201 

DwiGHT, Timothy 9 



Easter, Marguerite Elizabeth 471 

Eastman, Barrett 725 

Eastman, Charles Gamage 197 

Eastman. Elaine Goodale 700 

Eaton, Arthur Wentworth HAMn> 

TON 578 

Egan, Maurice Francis 543 

Eliot, Henrietta Robins 587 

Elliot, George Tracy 581 

Ellsworth, Erastus Wolcott 255 

Ellw ANGER, William De Lancey 590 

Embury, Emma Catharine 196 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo 90 

English, Thomas Dunn 232 

Erskine, John 767 

Fabbri, Cora 761 

Father Edmund of the Heart of 
Mary, C. P. — See Benjamin Dionysius 
Hill. 

Fenollosa, Ernest Francisco 586 

Fenollosa, Mary McNeil 739 

Field, Eugene 526 

Fields, Annie 346 

Fields, Jambs Thomas 181 

Finch, Francis Miles 292 

Finch, Julia Neely 759 

Flash, Henry Lynden 455 

Fleming, Maybury 566 

FooTE, Lucius Harwood 360 

" Forester, Fanny." —See Emily Chub- 
buck Judson. 
" Forester, Frank." — See Henry Wil- 
liam Herbert. 

Foss, Sam Walter 676 

Foster, Stephen Collins 288 

" FoxTON, E." — See Sarah Hammond 
Palfrey. 

Freneau, Philip 3 

Frothingham, Nathaniel Langdon. . 87 

Fuller, Margaret 773 

FuRNBss, William Henry 90 

Gallagher, William Davis 142 

Gardner, William Henry 678 

Garland, Hamlin 654 

Garrison, Wendell Phillips 465 

Garrison, William Lloyd 102 

George, Margaret Gilman. — See Mar- 
garet George Davidson. 

Gilder, Joseph B 773 

Gilder, Richard Watson 474 

GiLLESPY, Je ANNETTE BlISS 767 

" Glyndon, Howard." — See Laura 

Redden Searing. 

Glynes, Ella Dietz 581 

GoBTZ, Philip Becker 767 

Goodale, Dora Read 722 

Goodale, Elaine. — See Elaine Goodale 

Eastman. 

Goodrich, Samuel Griswold 87 

Gordon, Armistead Churchill 606 

Gould, Hannah Flagg 30 

GouRAUD, George Farwel 765 

Gray, David 377 

Greene, Albert Gorton 80 

Greene, Homek 681 



INDEX OF POETS 



87s 



Greene, Sarah Pratt McLean 634 

Grissom, Arthur 762 

" Groot, Cecil db." — See Wallace 
Rice. 

GuiNEY, LotnsE Imogen 664 

Gummere, Francis Barton 595 

Hale, Edward Everett 308 

Hale, Sarah Josepha * 23 

Hall, Gertrude 699 

Halleck and Drake 46 

Halleck, Fitz-Greene 36 

Halpine, Charles Graham 455 

Hansbrough, Mary Berri (Chap- 
man) 770 

Hardy, Arthur Sherburne 505 

Harney, Will Wallace 323 

Harris, Joel Chandler 513 

Harris, Thomas Lake 260 

Harte, Francis Bret 403 

Hastings, Thomas 19 

Hawkes, Clarence 762 

Hawthorne, Hildegarde 744 

Hawthorne, Julian 585 

Hawthorne, Nathaniel 191 

Hay, Helen 753 

Hay, John 395 

Hayes, Ednah Proctor (Clarke) 750 

Hayes, John Russell 721 

Hayne, Paul Hamilton 317 

Hayne, William Hamilton 612 

Heaton, John Langdon 677 

Hedge, Frederic Henry 193 

Hellman, George Sidney 755, 768 

Herbert, Henry William 196 

Herford, Oliver 697 

"Hermes, Paul." — See William Boscoe 

Thayer. 
" H. H." — See Helen Fiske Jackson, 

HiCKOX, Chauncey 582 

Higginson, Ella 692 

HiGGiNSON, Mary Thacher 486 

Higginson, Thomas Wentworth 267 

HiLDRETH, Charles Lotin 616 

Hill, Benjamin Dionysius 470 

Hill, George 88 

Hillhouse, Augustus Lucas 86 

HiLLHOUSE, James Abraham 24 

Hirst, Henry Beck 175 

Hoffman, Charles Fenno 110 

Holland, Josiah Gilbert 233, 588 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell 153 

Honeywood, St. John 11 

HoPKiNSON, Joseph 14 

HoRTON, George 675 

Houghton, George 525 

HovEY, Richard 702 

Howarth, Ellen Clementine 300 

Howe, Julia Ward 220 

Howe, Mark A. De Wolfe 708 

Howell, Elizabeth Lloyd 194 

HowELLS, Mildred 742 

HowELLS, William Dean 386 

HowELLS, Winifred 701 

Rowland, Edward 466 

HoYT, Ralph 108 

Hughes, Rupert 736 



Huntington, William Reed 390 

Hutchinson, Ellen Mackay. — See 
Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz. 

Hutchison, Percy Adams 766 

HuTTON, Laurence 472 

" Idas." —See John Elton Wayland. 

Ingalls, John James 466 

Ingham, John Hall 652 

"Innsley, Owen." — See Lucy White 

Jennison. 
" Ironquxll." -^ See Eugene Fitch Ware. 

Jackson, Helen Fiske 324 

James, Alice Archer (Sewall) 732 

Janvier, Margaret Thomson 579 

Jenks, Tudor 625 

Jennison, Lucy White 523 

Jewett, Sophie 693 

Johnson, Charles Frederick 368 

Johnson, Robert Underwood 549 

Johnson, Rossiter 409 

Johnson, Samuel 254 

Johnson, William Martin 28 

Jordan, David Starr 580 

JuDsoN, Emily Chubbuck 183 

Keeler, Charles Augustus 758 

Kemble, Frances Anne 163 

Kenyon, James Benjamin 630 

Keppel, Frederick 673 

Kerr, Orpheus C. — See Robert Henry 
Newell. 

Key, Francis Scott 16 

Kimball, Hannah Parker 668 

Kimball, Harriet McEwen 348 

King, Edward 511 

Kinney, Elizabeth Clementine 167 

Knowles, Frederic Lawrence 727 

KooPMAN, Harry Lyman 652 

Lamar, Mirabeau Bonaparte 88 

Lanier, Sidney 433 

Lanigan, George Thomas 473 

Larcom, Lucy 300 

Larremore, Wilbur 600 

Lathrop, George Parsons 536 

Lathhop, Rose Hawthorne 539 

Lawton, William Cranston 567 

Lazarus, Emma 518 

Learned, Walter 502 

Lbgarb, James Matthew 266 

Leigh, Amy E 678 

Leiser, Joseph 747 

Leland, Charles Godfrey 269 

LiNDSEY, William 638 

LipPMANN, Julie Mathilde 707 

Litchfield, Grace Denio 521 

Lloyd, Beatrix Demarest 755 

Lodge, George Cabot 743 

LoiNES, Russell Hillard 768 

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth 111 

Lord, William Wilberforce 242 

LoRiNG, Frederick Wadsworth 584 

LovEMAN, Robert 763 

Lowell, James Russell 202 

Lowell, Maria White 249 



876 



INDEX OF POETS 



Lowell, Robert Teaill Spence 178 

LuDBES, Charles Henry 632 

LuNT, George 190 

Lytle, Willlam Haines 303 

Mace, Frances Laughton 365, 684 

Malone, Walter 715 

Makkham, Edwin 541 

Martin, Edward Sanford 608 

Mason, Agnes Carter 687 

Mason, Caroline Atherton 463 

Mason, Mary Augusta 633 

Mathews, Albert 305 

Mathews, Cornelius 201 

Matthews, Brander 590 

McCabe, William Gordon 421 

McGaffey, Ernest 669 

McLellan, Isaac 190 

McMaster, Guy Humphreys 451 

Mellen, Grenville 89 

Melville, Herman 235 

Mercer, Margaret 86 

Meredith, William Tuckey 458 

Merington, Marguerite 771 

Merrill, Charles Edmund, Jr 769 

Messinger, Robert Hinckley 200 

Mifflin, Lloyd 496 

Miller, Alice Duer 730 

Miller, Joaquin 426 

Miller, Katherine 761 

Mitchell, Langdon Elwyn 685 

Mitchell, Silas Weir 311 

Mitchell,' *Walter 303 

Monroe, Harriet 660 

Montgomery, George Edgar 613 

Moody, William Vaughn 726 

Moore, Charles Leonard 569 

MooKB, Clement Clarke 15 

MoRGEiDGE, Harriet S 473 

Morris, George Pope 82 

Morris, Gouverneur 765 

Morris, Harrison Smith 617 

Morse, James Herbert 425 

MouLTON, Louise Chandler 355 

Muhlenberg, William Augustus 74 

Munger, Robert Louis 767 

Munkittrick, Richard Kendall 551 

Nason, Emma Huntington 582 

Neal, John 52 

Negro Spirituals 459 

Nesmith, James Ernest 674 

Newell, Robert Henry 457 

Norton, Andrews 29 

O'Brien, Fitz-James 304 

" OcciDENTE, Maria del." — See Maria 

Goiven Brooks. 
"O'Reilly, Miles." — See Charles Gra- 
ham Haljnne. 

O'Connor, Joseph 430 

O'Connor, Michael 457 

O'Hara, Theodore 248 

O'Reilly, John Boyle 480 

Osborne, Duffield. . . 675 

Osgood, Frances Sargent 169 

Osgood, Kate Putnam 458 



Page, Thomas Nelson 657 

Paine, Albert Bigelow 669 

Palfrey, Sarah Hammond 299 

Palmer, John Williamson 277 

Palmer, Ray 153 

Paradise, Caroline Wilder (Fel- 

LOWES) 770 

Parker, Theodore 166 

Parsons, Thomas William 237 

"Paul, John." — See Charles Henry 

Webb. 

Paulding, James Kirke 17 

Payne, John Howard 85 

Payne, William Morton 627 

Peabody, Josephine Preston 745 

Peabody, William Boukne Oliver . . 76 

Peck, Harry Thurston 621 

Peck, Samuel Minturn 676 

Pellew, George . . . r 648 

Percival, James Gates 70 

"Percy, Florence." — See Elizabeth 

Akers Allen. 

Perry, Lilla Cabot 667 

Perry, Nora 423 

Peterson, Arthur 583 

Peterson, Frederick 677 

Peterson, Henry 180 

Phelps, Charles Henry 648 

Piatt, John Jambs 349 

Piatt, Sarah Morgan Bryan 374 

PiERPONT, John 33 

Pike, Albert 163 

PiNKNEY, Edward Coate 81 

PoE, Edgar Allan 144 

Pollock, Edward 301 

Pratt, Anna M 688 

Prentice, George Denison 84 

Preston, Margaret Junkin 286 

Proctor, Edna Dean 398 

Proudfit, David Law 462 

PuLLBN, Elisabeth Cavazza 601 

PuLLEN, Eugene Henry 470 

Randall, James Ryder 400 

Randolph, Anson Da vies Fitz 298 

Rankin, Jeremiah Fames 295 

"Raymond, Grace.'! — See Annie B. 

StiUman. 

Read, Thomas Buchanan 250 

Realf, Richard 343 

Reese, Lizbtte Woodworth 609 

Rice, Wallace 688 

Richards, Laura Elizabeth 524 

Richardson, Charles Francis 540 

Richardson, George Lynde 768 

Riley, James Whitcomb 559 

Robinson, Annie Douglas 471 

Robinson, Edwin Arlington 727 

Robinson, Lucy 696 

Robinson, Tracy 340 

Roche, Jambs Jeffrey 498 

RoGE, Madame. — See Charlotte Fiske 

Bates. 

Rogers, Robert Cameron 689 

Rollins, Alice Wellington 499 

RooNEY, John Jerome 716 

Rosenberg, James Naumberg 766 



INDEX OF POETS 



877 



ROSBNFELD, MORRIS 772 

RuNKLE, Bertha Brooks 759 

Russell, Irwin 568 

Ryan, Abram Joseph 402 

Saltus, Francis Saltus 521 

Sanborn, Franklin Benjamin 326 

Sands, Robert Charles 89 

Sangster, Margaret Elizabeth 391 

Santayana, George 762 

Sargent, Epes 177 

Sargent, John Osborne 201 

Savage, Minot Judson 467 

Savage, Philip Henry 724 

Saxton, Andrew Bice 672 

Schuyler, Montgomery 676 

ScoLLARD, Clinton 658 

Scott, Mary McNeil. — See M. McN, 
Fenollosa. 

ScuDDER, Eliza 298 

Searing, Laura Redden 465 

Sears, Edmund Hamilton 194 

Sew ALL, Alice Archer. — See A. A. 
(S.) James. 

Sewall, Frank 469 

Sewall, Harriet Winslow 297 

Shaw, John 14 

Shepherd, Nathaniel Graham 456 

Sherman, Frank Dempster 650 

Shinn, Milicent Washburn 628 

SiCKELS, David Banks 469 

" SiEGVOLK, Paul." — See Albert Math- 
ews. 

Sigourney, Lydia Huntley 47 

Sill, Edward Rowland 419 

Simms, William Gilmore 106 

Smith, Elizabeth Oakes 126 

Smith, Harry Bache 679, 761 

Smith, May Riley 441 

Smith, Samuel Francis 153 

Spalding, John Lancaster 411 

Spalding, Susan Marr 636 

Spingarn, Joel Elias 766 

Spofford, Harriet Prescott 353 

Sprague, Charles 50 

Stanton, Frank Lebby 622 

Starr, Hattie , 680 

Stebbins, Mary Elizabeth (Hewitt) . 188 

Stedman, Edmund Clarence 2, 333 

Stein, Evaleen 694 

" Sterne, Stuart." — See Gertrude 
Bloede. 

Stetson, Charlotte Perkins 663 

Stetson, Grace Ellery Channing. — 
See Mrs. Channing-Stetson, 

Stillman, Annie R 672 

Stockard, Henry Jerome 634 

Stoddard, Charles Warren 445 

Stoddard, Elizabeth 257 

Stoddard, Lavinia 30 

Stoddard, Richard Henry 279 

Story, William Wetmore 218 

Stowe, Harriet Elizabeth Beeoher 195 

Street, Alfred Billings 171 

Sutphen, Van Tassel 760 

Tabb, John Banister 489 



Tappan, William Bingham 87 

Tassin, Algernon 767 

Tatnall, Frances Dorr (Swift) 679 

Taylor, Bayard 271 

Taylor, Charles Edward 768 

Taylor, Joseph Russell 723 

Thaxter, Celia 369 

Thayer, Stephen Henry 407 

Thayer, William Roscoe 640 

Thomas, Charles Edward 766 

Thomas, Edith Matilda 571, 588 

Thomas, Frederick William 196 

Thompson, John Randolph 264 

Thompson, Maurice 483 

Thompson, Vance 69] 

Thompson, Will Henry 508 

Thoreau, Henry David 182 

TicKNOR, Francis Orrery 253 

TiLLEY, Lucy Evangeline 674 

Tilton, Theodore 361 

Timrod, Henry 314 

TooKER, Lewis Frank 604 

ToRRENCE, Frederic Ridgely 752 

TowNSEND, George Alfred 417 

TowNSEND, Mary Ashley 329 

Trask, Katrina 671 

Traubel, Horace L 638 

Troubetskoy, Amelie 698 

Trowbridge, John Townsend 292 

Trumbull, Annie Eliot 672 

Tucker, St. George 10 

Tuckerman, Henry Theodore 191 

Underwood, Wilbur 749 

Urmy, Clarence 635 

Valentine, Edward A. U 731 

" Vandegrift, Margaret." — See Mar- 
garet Thomson Janvier. 

Van Dyke, Henry 545 

Van Rensselaer, Peyton 678 

Van Vorst, Marie 773 

"Varley, John Philip." — See Langdon 
Elwyn Mitchell. 

Venable, William Henry 366 

Very, Jones 173 

Wallace, Lew 678 

Ward, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. . . . 481 

Ward, Samuel 200 

Ward, William Hayes 358 

Ware, Eugene Fitch 585 

Warner, Charles Dudley 308 

Watson, Edward Willard 479 

Wayland, John Elton 678 

Webb, Charles Henry 341 

Webster, Daniel 28 

Weeden, Howard 748 

Weeks, Robert Kblley 414 

Welby, Amelia Coppuck 296 

Wharton, Edith 763 

Whicher, George Meason 676 

White, Edward Lucas 712 

White, Eugene Richard 7.38 

Whiting, Charles Goodrich 431 

Whiting, Lilian 582 

Whitman, Sarah Helen: 101 



878 



INDEX OF POETS 



Whitman, Walt 221 

Whitney, Hattib 681 

Whitney, Helen Hay. — See Helen Hay, 

Whitney, Joseph Eknest 677 

Whittier, John Gkeenleae 128 

Wilcox, Ella Wheeler 615 

Wilde, Richard. Henry 27 

WiLKiNs, Mary Eleanor 770 

Wilkinson, William Cleaver. . • 452 

Willard, Emma Hart 29 

Williams, Francis Howard. 483 

Willis, Nathaniel Parker 102 

WiLLSON, FORCEYTHB ; 388 

Wilson, Alexander , 12 

Wilson, Robert Burns , , 531 



Winter, William 371 

WiNTHROP, Theodore 307 

WooDBERRY, George Edward 590 

WooDwoRXH, Samuel 20 

WooLSBY, Sarah Chauncey 491 

WooLSEY, Theodore Dwight 79 

WooLsoN, Constance Fbnimore 461 

Wright, William Bull 394 



"Xaripfa." — See Mary Ashley Toivn- 
send. 



Young, Edward. 
Young, William. 



199 
506 



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